THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LIBRARY 
Mtthodlst  Board  or  Missions 

NASHVILLE.  TENM. 


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Letters  From  Italy, 
Switzerland  and  Germany 


By 
VIRGINIA  CARROLL  PEMBERTON 


I 


CINCINNATI 
PRESS  OF  JENNINGS  AND  GRAHAM 


COPYRIGHT,    1912,  BY 
VIRGINIA  CARROLL  PEMBERTON 


P37£ 


TO 
I  DEDICATE  THIS  BOOK 


55GS&9 


FOREWORD 

Our  little  friend  Barron,  six  years  of  age,  delights 
to  hear  about  my  beautiful  trip  to  Europe,  but  he  in- 
variably closes  our  tete-a-tete  saying,  emphatically  and 
defiantly,  "But  there  's  nothing  in  Europe  as  good  as 
America." 

I  commend  his  patriotism,  yet  am  pleased  that  more 
than  once  he  has  asked  his  mother  to  carry  him  to 
Europe  "to  see  St.  Peter's,  the  Sea  of  Ice,  and  that 
big  St.  Bernard  dog." 

It  is  with  the  hope  of  giving  pleasure  to  many 
young  friends,  also  those  of  larger  growth,  that  this 
little  volume   is  published. 

I  would  that  it  might  even  strengthen  the  desire 
of  some  people  unto  determination  to  see  the  invalu- 
able art-treasures  and  to  enjoy  the  charming  scenery 
of  Europe,  enhanced  by  association  with  the  heroic 
deeds  and  beautiful   romances  of  many  centuries. 

My  two  communications  from  Europe,  published 
in  the  Western  Methodist,  are,  through  the  courtesy 
of  the  editors,  incorporated  with  the  letters  and  notes 
from  my  diary  written  as  we  traveled  in  Italy,  Swit- 

5 


6  FOREWORD 

zerland,  and  Germany.  Our  pleasing  experiences  in 
Holland,  Belgium,  France,  and  England  may  be  re- 
counted later. 

With  small  claim  to  literary  merit,  I  thank  the 
friends  who  have  encouraged  the  publication  of  these 
sketchy  epistles,  and  for  whose  kindly  appreciation  I 
am  deeply  grateful.  V.  C.  P. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Voyage,  ------        11 

Italy,  -       - -41 

Switzerland,  ------      130 

Germany,     - 174 


Letters  from  Italy,  Switzerland 
and  Germany 


THE  VOYAGE 

Fifteen  Days  at  Sea,  During  Which  We  are 
Enlivened  by  Moderate  Gales  and  the  Ar- 
rival of  a  New  Passenger. 

S.  S.  Slavonic  June  19,  1908. 

This  is  our  second  day  of  seeming  to  be  between 
the  heavens  and  the  deep  blue  sea,  and  there 's  no 
turning  back  home  except  in  mind  and  spirit.  I  can 
hardly  believe  I  am  actually  going  to  London,  and  by 
way  of  Italy,  Switzerland,  Holland,  Belgium,  and 
France. 

Our  June  Mediterranean  tour  is  well  planned,  and 
our  itinerary  will  lead  us  through  scores  of  interesting 
places  in   Southern   Europe. 

I  intended  to  review  a  little  history  for  this  event- 
ful trip,  but  was  too  busy  with  a  bit  of  embroidery  for 
Elizabeth's  wedding  trousseau;  besides,  foreign  lands 
become  more  remote  and  strange  peoples  of  lesser  in- 
terest when  a  family-wedding  approaches;  kings  and 
queens  were  of  small  moment  to  me,  and  poets  and 
philosophers  were  held  in  abeyance.  My  chief  thought 
was  of  "love  that  makes  the  world  go  round,"  and 
the  humdrum  needle  seemed  to  sing  bridal  choruses 
and  sweetest  lullabies  as  loving  wishes  were  stitched 
into  linen. 

11 


12  THE  VOYAGE 

It  was  indeed  difficult  to  make  preparation  for  an 
unsentimental  journey,  and  at  times  the  thought  of 
going  so  far  without  any  member  of  my  family  blotted 
out  every  pleasing  prospect  but  one. 

During  those  weeks  I  often  asked  myself  why  I 
had  agreed  to  go  to  Europe  in  this  lonesome  way,  and 

the  anticipated  visit  to  our  dear   L in   London 

was  the  one  excuse  for  such  a  rash  act. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  wished  to  go  to  Europe 
to  find  a  companion  for  Ann  Fisher,  that  quaint  old 
wooden  doll  brought  to  Virginia  in  the  long  ago,  and 
for  which  Mother  took  her  first  tottering  footsteps. 
But  the  days  of  dolls  have  long  since  passed  away. 
Also  I  've  long  known  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  to 
Europe  for  fine  scenery,  as  we  have  Niagara  Falls  to 
the  east  and  the  Rocky  Mountains  to  the  west  of  us. 
Quite  recently  the  Hon.  James  Bryce,  England's  am- 
bassador to  the  United  States,  said  that  in  our  South- 
west we  have  the  agricultural  resources  of  France,  the 
rural  beauties  of  England,  and  the  tinted  skies  of  Italy. 

Still  there  are  the  footprints  and  highways  of  a 
grand  old  civilization  in  Europe  which  I  have  long 
desired  to  see;  and  the  art-treasures  of  past  centuries 
held  out  resistless  allurements.  So  when  the  short 
time  of  preparation  for  the  tour  was  nearly  ended,  and 
but  little  improved,  I  borrowed  my  husband's  steamer- 
trunk  and  black  suit-case,  and  bravely  packed  my 
American-made  clothing.  I  had  misgivings  about  the 
new  Knox  hat  with  elongated  brim,  although  the  mil- 
liner declared  it  just  the  thing  for  foreign  travel,  and 
good  enough  to  wear  in  the  presence  of  royalty. 


THE  VOYAGE  13 

If  possible,  in  those  last  busy  weeks  home  seemed 
dearer  than  ever,  and  I  fain  would  have  lingered  in 
our  Southland.  The  flickering  sunshine  and  the 
shadows  beneath  the  trees  were  never  more  entranc- 
ing, and  nasturtiums,  roses,  lilies,  jasmines,  olean- 
ders, and  magnolias  charmed  me  ne'er  so  well.  Ar- 
kansas, my  good  mother-in-law,  bedecked  with  June 
roses,  never  looked  lovelier  than  when  I  started  off 
from  Little  Rock  with  a  chaperon  to  unknown  lands. 

At  St.  Louis,   Mrs.  B and   Miss  J ,  of 

Tennessee,  joined  us,  and  our  journey  to  New  York 
was  not  unpleasant,  although  heavy  rains  marred  the 
succession  of  pleasing  landscapes. 

We  spent  two  days  in  the  great  city  and  com- 
pleted our  shopping;  buying  raincoats,  steamer-hats, 
rugs,  books,  and  magazines.  The  chaperon  and  I 
bought  suit-cases  alike,  and  all  the  raincoats  are  alike 
in  lacking  grace  and  beauty. 

Just  before  sailing  we  discovered  the  chaperon 
had  regularly  for  three  days  administered  her  medi- 
cine for  the  prevention  of  sea-sickness — but  at  the 
wrong  times.  What  the  outcome  will  be  remains  to 
be  seen. 

I  do  n't  think  I  've  really  forgotten  anything,  yet 
I  failed  to  bring  the  silk  bag  for  magazines,  and  the 
little  pillow  to  form  a  head-rest  on  the  back  of  my 
steamer-chair,  as  directed  by  the  chaperon.  There 
was  no  time  to  make  the  bag,  but  I  brought  the  blue 
silk  scraps  along  to  harmonize  with  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  and  possibly  soothe  the  Mediterranean  Sea. 
Almost  at   the  last  minute   the  silkoline  pillow   was 


14  THE  VOYAGE 

tied  on  the  young  box-elder  to  protect  its  tender 
branches  from  the  wires  which  anchor  it  to  the  old 
cedar  tree  near  our  library  window.  That  little  seed- 
ling, which  pushed  its  way  up  among  the  flowers,  right 
by  the  Mary  Washington  rose,  has  grown  rapidly,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  safeguard  it  against  windstorms. 

I  've  made  apology  and  explanation  to  the  cha- 
peron, and  I  expect  to  be  able  to  hold  my  own  head 
up.  The  flannelette  cover  of  my  hot-water  bottle  is 
a  fine  substitute  for  the  silk  bag,  and  this  scarlet  pouch, 
with  Chinese  flowers  and  parasols  chasing  around  it, 
is  large  enough  to  hold  note-books,  pencils,  and  the 
magazines  I  may  never  read.  I  shall  spend  my  days 
on  deck,  scribbling  some  and  dozing  a  good  deal,  and 
I  hope  to  emulate  that  wonderful  baby  who  "breathed 
and  breathed  and  breathed  all  day  long." 

On  yesterday  the  commotion  of  passengers  coming 
aboard  and  their  friends  leaving  the  ship  was  followed 
by  a  noticeable  silence.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  writ- 
ing farewell  letters  to  be  left  at  Sandy  Hook  for  the 
United  States  mail.  I  dare  say,  we  all  desired  to  go 
to  Europe,  but  some  of  us  wished  ourselves  at  home. 

New  York  Harbor,  with  sea-craft  of  every  size 
and  shape,  made  a  fine  picture,  and  our  receding  shores 
were  wondrous  fair  to  look  upon.  Soon  the  ceaseless 
hum  of  the  busy,  bustling  city  was  no  longer  heard, 
and  for  once  New  York  appeared  to  be  silent  and  se- 
rene. Its  tall  spires  and  magnificent  buildings  were 
fading  out  of  sight  as  we  passed  Ellis  Island  and  the 
neighboring  ones  on  which  notable  and  beneficent  in- 
stitutions of  our  country  are  situated.    The  Statue  of 


THE  VOYAGE  15 

Liberty  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  which  bespeaks  our 
welcome  to  the  peoples  of  the  earth,  now  spoke  us 
farewell  and  bon  voyage  to  the  Old  World. 

The  call  to  luncheon  was  opportune,  and  we  be- 
gan to  look  at  our  fellow-passengers  with  interest. 
Seated  on  deck  we  had  resembled  so  many  "Injuns 
all  in  a  row,"  but  now  we  looked  into  each  other's 
faces  and  read  the  signs  of  promise  there.  Friendly 
lights  beamed  through  "windows  of  the  soul,"  and 
kindly  salutations  were  exchanged. 

The  long  tables  were  decorated  with  ferns,  and 
some  of  them  were  graced  with  beautiful  flowers  sent 
by  friends  in  compliment  to  the  young  ladies,  who 
kindly  shared  the  brightness  and  fragrance  with  us 
all.  All  around  us  the  language  of  flowers  was  elo- 
quent, and  one  small  table  was  a  "thing  of  beauty" 
with  the  artistic  arrangement  of  a  profusion  of  ex- 
quisite roses,  pink  carnations,  and  rare  orchids.  Al- 
most the  entire  number  of  cabin  passengers,  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty,  were  seated  in  the  dining-saloon,  and 
good  cheer  prevailed.  A  lady  of  foreign  accent,  seated 
near  us,  ordered  wine — to  prevent  sea-sickness,  she 
said;  and  from  the  size  of  the  bottle,  she  anticipated 
a  prolonged  siege. 

There  are  a  number  of  Southerners  aboard  and 
very  pleasant-looking  people  from  all  parts  of  the 
United   States. 

The  chief  event  of  yesterday  afternoon  was  the 
delivery  of  steamer-letters,  and  it  was  good  to  have 
messages  of  love  and  cheer  as  the  homeland  was  slip- 
ping out  of  sight. 


16  THE  VOYAGE 

Tell   A I  've   already   commenced    collecting 

souvenir  postcards  for  her,  as  our  menus  for  luncheon 
and  dinner  have  pretty  and  detachable  pictures  of  the 
steamship  Slavonia  anchored  at  Gibraltar,  Naples, 
Trieste,  and  "Fiume,"  her  Mediterranean  ports,  though 
we  shall  not  see  the  two  last-named  ports. 

June  20,  1908. 

On  the  hurricane  deck  at  7.30  A.  M. 

The  weather  is  fine  and  the  ocean  is  intensely  blue 
this  morning.  As  the  spray  falls  into  drops  the  sap- 
phire waves  are  crested  with  diamonds  flashing  in  the 
sunlight.  In  the  distance  little  white  caps  on  big  waves 
run  to  join  each  other  like  gleeful  children  in  a  game 
of  catching  hands.  The  glorious  sunset  of  last  evening 
was  a  foregleam  of  this  resplendent  morning. 

Very  few  passengers  come  out  before  breakfast, 
although  it  is  delightful  up  here,  and  there  is  always 
something  to  see  or  hear  about.  The  decks  are  hardly 
yet  dry  from  the  early  morning  scrubbing,  and  the  tall, 
thin,  old  gentleman  from  Colorado  is  in  danger  of 
slipping  down  as  he  takes  his  morning  exercises.  He 
wildly  gesticulates  arms,  hands,  and  fingers  as  he  hops 
and  skips,  dances  and  prances,  paces  and  races  around 
the  deck.  He  is  the  most  animated  granddaddy-long- 
legs  I  ever  saw.  He  has  evidently  been  in  a  sanita- 
rium where  patients  receive  hints  on  diet  and  how 
to  be  quiet ;  the  mind  compose  and  eat  protose ;  to 
shake  the  digits  and  avoid  the  fidgets;  and  where  ex- 
ercises, prescribed  and  self-appointed,  engross  all  God's 
anointed  until  tortures  of  the  Inquisition  seem  brought 


THE  VOYAGE  17 

into  requisition.     Yet  Mr.  Longlegs  enjoys  his  gym- 
nastic gyrations,  and  so  do  we. 

The  Italians  are  already  having  good  times  on  the 
steerage  deck.  A  young  man  oblivious  to  everything 
else  is  playing  lively  tunes  on  his  accordeon,  keeping 
time  with  his  feet;  while  another  with  a  baby  in  his 
arms  is  dancing  to  this  energetic  music.  Little  chil- 
dren dressed  in  red,  yellow,  blue,  and  green  prints  are 
marched  up  to  the  hydrant,  and  their  smiling  faces  are 
hastily  scrubbed.  These  Italians  are  leaving  the 
United  States  because  there  is  a  scarcity  of  work,  and 
they  are  the  merriest  people  on  the  ship;  but  they  are 
sailing  homeward,  while  the  rest  of  us  are  leaving 
friends  and  familiar  scenes. 

The  Marconi  wireless  telegraph  station  is  on  this 
deck,  and  messages  buzzing  around  in  there  sound  like 
mammoth  mad  wasps  dancing  on  window  panes.  This 
morning  really  seems  an  opportune  time  for  a  mes- 
sage from  Mars,  if  it  is  ever  to  come.  We  might  be 
a  little  startled  by  the  communication,  but  would 
hardly  run  away. 

Bulletins  from  the  wireless  telegraph  station  are 
read  with  eagerness,  and  yesterday  we  heard  that  the 
Republicans  in  the  Chicago  convention  had  nominated 
Judge  W.  H.  Taft  for  President  of  the  United  States. 
As  the  "publicans"  and  sinners  may  be  victorious  in  the 
November  election,  I  'm  glad  we  of  the  South  are 
favorably   impressed   with  Judge  Taft. 

We  also  scan  the  ship's  daily  log  with  as  much 
interest  as  ever  men  in  Washington  City  watched  the 
returns  from  a  baseball  game  in  a  distant  town. 
2 


18  THE  VOYAGE 

Our  day  is  reckoned  from  noon  to  noon,  and 
Rackem  says  our  watches  must  be  moved  up  twice  a 
day  to  keep  correct  hours. 

We  have  representatives  of  many  countries  on 
board  our  ship,  but  the  more  than  seven  hundred  steer- 
age passengers  are  chiefly  Italians  and  Hungarians. 
As  they  are  not  very  friendly  towards  one  another, 
they  are  separated  by  all  the  available  space;  the 
Italians  being  in  the  bow,  and  the  Hungarians  in  the 
stern  of  the  ship.  The  Italians  seem  pleased  by  our 
interest  in  them,  but  the  Hungarians  are  stolid-looking, 
with  unresponsive  faces. 

Our  good  ship,  the  Slavonia,  is  a  Cunard  Royal 
Mail  twin-screw  steamer,  510  feet  long  and  69  feet 
wide,  and  it  is  wonderfully  complete  and  compact  in 
every  part.  The  British  Lion,  rampant,  stamped  on 
the  stationery,  painted  on  the  china,  and  carved  on 
the  newel  posts  of  the  stairways,  is  evidence  that  the 
Slavonia  is  a  loyal  subject  of  King  Edward  VII  of 
England. 

The  vessel  is  well  manned  and  no  one  doubts  her 
ability  to  cope  with  wind  and  wave.  Her  commander 
and  officers  are  vigilant  and  courteous,  and  her  seamen 
and  stewards  are  tireless  in  the  performance  of  duty. 

We  are  living  in  luxury  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
though   the   cozy   cabins   are    right   little,    tight   little 

apartments.     The   beautiful   Miss  R ,   of   North 

Carolina,  and  the  witty  Miss  K ,  of  Texas,  are  my 

room-mates,  and  we  are  comfortable  and  congenial  in 
close  quarters.  These  young  ladies  call  our  cabin- 
steward  "Rack-em,"  and  somehow  he  feels  compli- 
mented. 


THE  VOYAGE  19 

When  he  showed  me  the  electric  bell,  and  I  told 
him  we  expect  to  keep  well  and  need  but  little  atten- 
tion, he  quickly  said,  "Oh,  but  we  want  to  be  called; 
for  we  must  earn  our  living."  So  "tips"  are  of  vital 
consequence  to  the  men  who  serve  on  royal  mail-ships 
owned   by  rich  corporations  of   England. 

This  morning  we  were  introduced  to  Captain 
D ,  commander  of  the  ship,  and  he  said  sea- 
sickness is  largely  due  to  disturbance  of  the  brain. 
So  from  this  day  we  shall  cultivate  the  serenity  of 
old-world  philosophers,  lest  the  semblance  of  brain- 
storm overtake  us. 

Monday,  June  22,  1908. 

At  eight  o'clock  this  morning  the  sky  was  partially 
overcast  with  clouds,  and  a  light  rain  sprinkled  the 
little  company  of  us  seated  on  the  hurricane  deck. 
Suddenly  the  sun  burst  forth  and  a  beautiful  rainbow 
"all  woven  of  light"  spanned  the  heavens.  As  Words- 
worth said,  "The  clouds  were  touched,  and  in  their 
silent  faces  could  be  read  unutterable  love." 

On  yesterday,  our  first  Sunday  at  sea,  divine 
service  was  held  in  the  dining-saloon.  The  improvised 
pulpit  was  draped  with  British  flags,  and  the  service 
of  the  Church  of  England  was  impressively  read  by 
Rev.  Dr.  Hill,  of  Pennsylvania.  Special  prayers  were 
read  for  His  Majesty,  King  Edward  VII  of  England, 
and  His  Excellency  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
whose  name  was  not  called. 

We  entered  the  Gulf  Stream  on  Saturday  evening 
and  were  in  it  a  part  of  yesterday,  consequently  the 


20  THE  VOYAGE 

temperature  was  higher  and  the  day  was  rather  warm. 
That  day  sea-gulls  followed  us  for  awhile,  and  this 
morning  a  whale  bobbed  up  serenely,  though  I  failed 
to  see  his  ugly  countenance. 

We  were  invited  to  a  concert  Saturday  evening, 
given  "by  kind  permission"  of  the  commander,  and 
the  music  and  recitations  by  the  passengers  were  good, 
and  much  enjoyed  by  the  audience.  Three  of  our  party 
added  to  the  entertainment  of  the  evening.  Mrs. 
B ,  of  Tennessee,  gave  a  fine  selection  on  the  vio- 
lin, the  chaperon  recited  a  witty  story  in  Negro  dia- 
lect, and  Mr.  S played  on  the  mandolin.     The 

concert  closed  with  the  audience  singing  "God  Save 
the  King,"  followed  by  "America;"  for  these  loyal 
Britons  are  not  unmindful  of  their  American  patrons. 

Through  Marconi's  wireless  we  have  been  in  com- 
munication with  several  ships  on  the  highways  of  the 
sea,  and  it  is  a  comfort  to  know  we  are  in  speaking 
distance  of  other  people.  Though  the  most  interesting 
news  of  to-day  is  that  the  population  of  this  floating 
city  has  been  increased  by  the  arrival  of  a  new  pas- 
senger. The  light-hearted  Italians  in  the  steerage  are 
rejoicing  over  the  birth  of  a  baby,  and  we  are  won- 
dering what  they  will  name  her.  She  might  be  called 
Oceana,  or  Slavoniana;  at  any  rate  she  is  Italiana, 
though,  being  born  on  a  British  ship,  she  is  a  subject 
of  King  Edward  VII.  The  ocean  is  a  little  rough 
to-day,  and  the  baby  will  be  well  rocked  in  the  cradle 
of  the  deep.  May  she,  all  unconscious  though  it  be, 
catch  the  rhythm  of  the  sea  in  its  ceaseless  song  of 
praise  to  God  on  high. 


THE  VOYAGE  21 

One  of  my  room-mates,  not  feeling  well  to-day, 
declined  to  go  to  luncheon,  and  the  table-steward  said 
she  ought  to  eat,  "to  have  something  to  bring  up." 
Judging  from  the  many  opportunities  to  eat,  this  stew- 
ard's opinion  prevails,  and  the  hospitality  of  the  Sla- 
von'xa  is  boundless.  Three  times  a  day  the  long  tables 
in  the  saloon  are  loaded  with  good  things  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  between  meals  tea  and  biscuit 
(crackers)  or  bouillon  and  wafers  are  served  on  deck. 
If  we  do  n't  go  to  meals  they  '11  come  to  us.  There  's 
bound  to  be  something  to  bring  up!  These  informal 
and  frequent  teas  are  conducive  to  sociability  and  the 
days  are  passing  pleasantly. 

We  promenade  the  decks  at  all  hours,  usually  wear- 
ing raincoats,  not  to  keep  off  rain,  but  to  hold  down 
our  skirts.  Hats  are  rarely  laid  aside,  and  a  few  of 
the  ladies  have  very  becoming  ones.  The  Old  Lady's 
felt  hat,  being  too  large,  has  a  tuck  pinned  in  the 
crown,  which  makes  the  brim  droop  behind  like  a 
vanquished  rooster's  tail  after  a  fight.  She,  however, 
is  not  subdued  by  the  slight  circumstance  of  the  pass- 
ing hour;  nor  do  our  promenaders  anticipate  the  fate 
of  Rack-em,  who  says  "the  Missis"  (his  wife)  will 
not  go  out  with  him  when  he  is  at  home,  because  the 
carpets  on  shipboard  have  made  his  feet  tender  and 
ruined  his  gait.  Although  he  has  been  in  the  employ 
of  the  Cunard  Ship  Company  for  twenty  years,  his 
lack  of  grace  on  land  may  not  be  entirely  due  to  the 
luxuries  of  their  ships.  He  has  been  married  twelve 
years  and  has  spent  less  than  half  the  time  in  England, 
and  says  his  younger  children  would  not  recognize 


22  THE  VOYAGE 

him,  so  little  have  they  ever  seen  him.  One  of  the 
ladies  asked  him  if  a  half  worn  raincoat  would  be  ac- 
ceptable to  some  woman  in  the  steerage,  and  he  quickly 
replied,  "I  know  some  one  a  great  deal  better  than 
those  in  the  steerage  who  would  be  thankful  for  it, 
and  that  is  my  wife  in  England." 

Rack-em  is  short  and  florid,  and  a  rather  fierce- 
looking  Englishman,  with  his  hair  standing  on  ends 
like  that  of  the  immortal  Tommy  Traddles  intro- 
duced by  Charles  Dickens.  Rack-em  says  he  loves  the 
ocean  and  knows  it  "  'eart  to  'eart ;"  and  he  must  have 
the  faith  of  the  prophets  of  old,  for  he  believes  our 
bathroom  steward  bids  fair  to  become  a  fine  inter- 
preter. 

This  handsome,  fair-haired  Russian  boy  of  sunny 
countenance  puts  one  hand  upon  the  cold  and  the  other 
upon  the  hot-water  faucet,  and  smilingly  awaits  the 
indicative  nod  to  learn  whether  a  bath  of  higher  or 
lower  temperature  is  desired.  It  is  upon  this  good 
start  in  understanding  the  universal  language  that  the 
optimistic  Rack-em  bases  his  prophecy. 

June  23,  1908. 

A  few  of  us  were  on  the  hurricane  deck  at  7.45 
this  morning,  and  the  ocean  was  very  rough.  Her 
great  billows  angrily  hurled  themselves  against  our 
ship,  and  it  was  fascinating  to  watch  the  conflict  be- 
tween nature  and  man,  whose  skill  won  the  victory. 
The  contest  began  early  in  the  night,  and  Rack-em 
came  to  close  the  port-holes  in  our  cabin;  but  Miss 


THE  VOYAGE  23 

K ,  not  being  well,  persuaded  him  to  leave  it  open, 

and  we  were  fanned  to  sleep  by  the  brisk  breezes. 

At  four  o'clock  we  were  awakened  as,  with  a  roar 
and  a  splash,  a  small  deluge  poured  in  upon  Miss 
R sweetly  sleeping  in  the  berth  under  the  port- 
hole. 

The  night-steward  came  immediately,  saying  he 
knew  what  had  happened,  because  "the  bookings 
showed  that  this  port-'ole  was  the  only  one  left  hopen, 
as  the  young  lady  would  'ave  it  so." 

That  was  small  comfort  for  Miss  R ,  who 

received  the  drenching  richly  deserved  by  Miss  K , 

and  we  quickly  made  her  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
The  port-hole  was  closed  and  screwed  down,  to  pre- 
vent further  encroachment  of  the  sea.  There  was  not 
much  more  sleep  for  us,  as  the  ship  rocked  to  and  fro, 
and  at  six  o'clock,  without  discussion  or  premedita- 
tion, my  charming  room-mates  answered  the  call  of 
the  sea.  I  arose,  dressed  quickly,  and  fled  to  the 
upper  deck  to  prevent  the  spread  of  brainstorm  in  our 
cabin. 

A  number  of  chairs  were  vacant  at  breakfast  time, 
and  a  great  many  were  unoccupied  at  luncheon,  while 
a  moderate  gale  prevailed. 

The  lady  at  our  table  who  ordered  the  big  bottle 
of  wine  to  prevent  sea-sickness  was  absent,  having  suc- 
cumbed to  water,  if  not  to  wine.  All  in  vain,  at  in- 
tervals during  the  day  our  pretty  Hungarian  stew- 
ardess begged  Miss  R to  "eat  a  little  cheeken,  to 

keep   from  getting  too  theene." 

They  tell  us  Gibraltar  is  3,251  miles  from  New 


24  THE  VOYAGE 

York,  and  that  we  are  now  about  halfway  there. 
The  old  Atlantic  is  rushing  along  impetuously,  as 
though  eager  to  reach  a  haven  of  rest.  The  great 
billows  continue  to  rush  at  our  ship,  and  we  are  re- 
minded of  the  monster  leviathan  of  old.  But  the 
stately  ship  goes  on.  With  patience  and  perseverance 
she  rides  the  huge  waves  of  the  partially  subjugated 
and  ever-restless  sea. 

It  has  been  said  the  ocean,  ceaseless  and  resistless, 
represents  only  the  omnipotent  God,  with  never  a 
token  of  His  love.  Yet  we  know  all  lands  are  en- 
riched by  treasure  brought  on  the  ocean  wave,  and 
by  its  breath  man  is  refreshed  and  invigorated. 

The  great  air-shafts  standing  on  the  upper  deck  are 
benign  monsters,  wide-mouthed  and  hideous  to  look  at, 
and  they  catch  the  sea-breeze  and  ventilate  the  ship  be- 
low. Lifeboats  containing  casks  of  water  and  boxes 
of  biscuit  are  in  readiness  to  be  lowered  upon  the  ocean 
should  disaster  overtake  the  Slavonia;  but  we  antici- 
pate only  good  fortune. 

Twice  a  day  a  thermometer  is  let  down  into  the 
great  deep,  and  a  secret  is  wrested  from  Dame  Na- 
ture's heart.  The  proximity  of  an  iceberg  is  some- 
times discovered  in  this  way  and  danger  is  averted. 

June  25,  1908. 

The  ocean  is  smooth  and  glorious  to-day,  with 
hardly  a  wrinkle  on  her  brow. 

The  sea-sick  voyagers  are  better  and  the  sociability 
on  deck  has  been  renewed.     The  handsomely  dressed 


THE  VOYAGE  25 

woman  wearing  many  ruthlessly-slain  bluebirds  around 
the  crown  of  her  big  hat  says  this  is  her  twenty-third 
voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  and  that  once  she  "went 
over  for  a  dinner  in  London."  Whereupon  a  young 
lady  from  the  South,  in  a  whisper,  wondered  if  her 
mission  was  to  cook  the  dinner  in  London. 

Through  the  kindness  of  Mr.  M ,  our  con- 
ductor, several  of  our  party  were  invited  up  on  the 
bridge  this  morning,  and  the  unobstructed  view  of 
the  vast  ocean  was  sublime.  To  me  it  is  not  a  melan- 
choly sea,  nor  does  it  seem  treacherous,  but  it  does 
signify  separation,  and  I  realize  each  day  how  far  I 
am  from  home.  On  the  bridge  we  saw  the  pilot  and 
his  compass  with  needles  delicately  poised,  and  his 
wheel  which  connects  with  the  engine  and  controls  the 
rudder  of  the  ship.  Charts  of  the  ocean-route,  the 
chronometers  and  thermometers  of  late  device  and  best 
invention  were  very  interesting  to  us.  We  looked 
through  the  wonderful  and  delicate  instrument  in- 
vented by  Hadley  for  ascertaining  the  latitude  and 
longtitude,  in  which  the  sun,  falling  on  a  little  mirror, 
is  seen  through  glass,  and  the  mark  is  recorded  by 
needles.  The  officer  in  charge  was  asked  how  the 
longitude  and  latitude  are  discovered  on  a  cloudy  day, 
and  he  smiled,  but  the  question  was  unanswered. 

This  afternoon  we  sighted  a  tramp-steamer,  and 
Mr.  Longlegs  kindly  lent  us  his  fine  glasses  to  get  a 
good  look  at  it,  and  we  discovered  no  reason  for  call- 
ing a  useful  carrier  of  freight  a  tramp. 

This  evening  we  encountered  a  school  of  porpoises, 
and    they   jumped    joyously — perhaps    on    account    of 


26  THE  VOYAGE 

loaves,  if  not  fishes,  as  the  crumbs  from  our  dinner- 
table  had  just  been  emptied  into  the  sea. 

The  event  of  last  evening  was  the  grand  ball  of 
the  voyage,  and  for  which  elaborate  preparation  was 
made.  The  decks,  enclosed  with  canvas,  were  spread 
with  rugs,  decorated  with  flags,  and  made  brilliant 
with  electric  lights.  The  ladies  were  beautifully  at- 
tired, and  gold  braid  and  buttons  glittered  on  the  uni- 
form of  their  escorts,  officers  of  the  ship,  and  we  heard 
a  fine  supper  was  served  at  midnight.  The  American 
girls  say  the  Englishmen  are  not  good  dancers,  and  it 
is  barely  possible  that  Rack-em's  rolling  gait  is  not 
confined  to  the  stewards  of  ships. 

A  day  or  two  ago  several  members  of  our  party 
went  down  into  the  boiler-room  and  inspected  the  fine 
machinery  of  the  Slavonia.  Despite  the  noise  and 
grime  of  the  engine  a  little  canary  bird,  the  engineer's 
pet,  chirped  and  sang  merrily  in  its  cage,  and  seemed 
to  enjoy  "dying  for  the  king,"  and  other  little  tricks 
taught  it  by  the  patient  and  faithful  Englishman  who 
labors  down  below  the  daylight  for  the  safety  and 
speed  of  the  ship. 

June  27,  1908. 

On  hurricane  deck  at  7.30  A.  M. 

This  morning  the  blue  sky  is  cloudless.  The 
ocean  is  calm,  and  serenely  wears  the  colors  of  heaven 
on  her  breast.  The  Kindly  Light  has  led  us  through 
night's  encircling  gloom.  A  few  moments  ago  a  beau- 
tiful sea-dove  flew  around  the  ship  and  rested  on  the 
rail  of  the  steerage  deck.     No  one  knows  whence  it 


THE  VOYAGE  27 

came  nor  whither  it  goeth,  but  it  seems  to  presage 
for  us  a  prosperous  voyage  to  the  end. 

A  day  or  two  ago  the  bright  bow  of  promise  flung 
across  the  firmament  reminded  us  of  God's  goodness 
to  the  children  of  men,  and  this  gentle  dove  brings  a 
message  from  the  Prince  of  Peace,  the  Savior  of  man- 
kind. 

As  we  look  out  where  the  sky  and  the  ocean  meet 
we  are  reminded  of  the  mysterious  and  invisible  line 
which  separates  time  from  eternity.  There  are  no 
boundary  lines  and  seemingly  no  pathway  ahead;  yet 
our  pilot,  true  to  his  compass,  is  guiding  this  great  ship 
into  safe  harbors. 

We  know  not  what  the  future  holds  for  us,  but 
with  our  own  Quaker  poet  we  sing: 

"I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 
Their  fronded  palms  in  air, 
I  only  know  I  can  not  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care." 

This  beautiful,  restful  voyage  is  making  us  ready 
for  the  dash  through  Europe. 

We  are  fortunate  in  having  a  charming  young  lady 
and  a  bright  school  girl  to  enliven  the  dash.  Besides 
our  courteous  and  capable  conductor  we  have  a 
preacher  to  indoctrinate  us,  a  lawyer  to  extricate  us, 
a  teacher  to  elucidate  and  illuminate  us,  and  a  doctor 
to  medicate,  vaccinate,  and,  if  need  be,  fumigate  us. 
We  are  prepared  and  equipped  for  the  exigencies  and 
emergencies  of  foreign  travel. 

We  have  on  board  another  party  of  tourists   (of 


28  THE  VOYAGE 

the  same  number  and  under  the  same  management  as 
ours),  formed  of  Carolinians  and  Virginians,  and  we 
have  many  pleasant  acquaintances  in  common  with 
them.  The  Old  Gentleman  from  North  Carolina  en- 
tertains  me    with    reminiscences,    and    says   W 's 

father  helped  him  to  get  started  in  business  more  than 
fifty  years  ago,  and  afterwards  helped  him  to  win  his 
sweetheart  when  the  case  seemed  hopeless.  Forty 
years  have  passed  since  their  wedding  day,  and  he  is 
her  lover  still.  As  he  talked  about  her,  Wordsworth's 
poem,  written  after  thirty-six  years  of  wedded  life,  was 
recalled : 

"No  spring  nor  summer  beauty  hath  such  grace 
As  I  have  seen  in  an  autumnal  face. 

Morn  into  morn  did  pass,  noon  into  eve, 
And  the  old  day  was  welcome  as  the  young. 

As  welcome,  and  as  beautiful  in  sooth, 
More  beautiful  as  being  a  thing  more  holy." 

June  29,  1908. 

The  past  two  days  have  been  crowded  with  in- 
teresting incidents,  not  to  say  events,  which  they  cer- 
tainly were  for  me. 

We  have  sailed  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar 
into  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  glimpsed  Portugal,  looked 
over  into  Spain,  upon  the  Atlas  Mountains  of  Africa, 
and  have  set  foot  upon  England's  possessions,  spending 
several  hours  at  Gibraltar,  the  mighty  fortress  of  his- 
tory. 


THE  VOYAGE  29 

Yesterday  we  sighted  land,  and  first  thought  it  a 
shadow  or  a  cloud  against  the  horizon.  It  was  the 
rocky  coast  of  Cape  St.  Vincent,  the  tip  end  of  Portu- 
gal, rising  abruptly  from  the  sea,  and  the  friendly 
lighthouse,  the  quaint  church  and  farm-houses,  with 
cultivated  fields  beyond,  formed  a  charming  picture. 
This  tranquil  scene  contrasted  strongly  with  that  re- 
cently enacted  in  the  capital  city  when  the  king  and 
crown  prince  of  Portugal  were  brutally  assassinated 
in  the  crowded  streets.  The  young  King  Manuel 
comes  to  the  throne  with  a  sad  but  courageous  heart. 
His  inaugural  address  of  twenty-six  words  was  worthy 
of  a  thoughtful  and  cautious  monarch,  and  that  he 
may  rule  righteously  was  our  hope  as  the  Slavonia 
sailed  past  this  tip  end  of  Portugal. 

To-day  we  've  had  the  rugged  coast  of  Spain  on 
one  side,  and  on  the  other  Africa's  towering  moun- 
tains; and  the  grandeur  of  the  scene  is  indescribable. 
In  this  meeting-place  of  Nature's  mighty  monarchs 
the  sea  may  not  be  quelled,  but  it  is  held  in  check  by 
the  mountains.  These  countries  are  shut  in  by  nature, 
but  superstition  and  unbelief  have  been  far  greater 
barriers  to  the  spread  of  truth  among  their  peoples. 

Tarifa,  Spain,  is  very  attractive  with  its  two  light- 
houses, several  watch-towers  of  olden  time,  and  queer 
little  dwellings  perched  upon  the  rocky  cliffs.  The 
small  farms  are  divided  by  hedges,  and  a  few  trees 
give  the  charm  of  home-likeness  to  the  landscape. 
Back  of  these  were  the  wooded  hills,  and  we  could  n't 
peep  far  into  Spanish  territory,  but  we  made  good 
wishes  for  the  king  and  queen  and  the  Crown  Prince 


30  THE  VOYAGE 

Alfonso,  a  soldier  at  three  years  of  age  and  destined, 
if  he  lives,  to  add  to  the  glory  of  Spain,  for  he  is 
not  only  a  prince  of  the  Asturias,  but  the  great-grand- 
son of  the  great  Queen  Victoria. 

A  little  before  noon  we  sighted  Gibraltar,  the  his- 
toric key  of  Europe.  In  undisguised  delight  we  gazed 
upon  the  great  rock  with  its  fortifications  and  bristling 
guns,  the  signal  service  and  wireless  telegraph  stations; 
for  this  natural  stronghold  has  been  reinforced  by 
man's  skill  and  scientific  knowledge. 

Gibraltar,  the  mighty  tongue  of  rock,  1,35°  feet 
above  the  sea,  runs  south  of  the  mainland  of  Spain 
to  within  twenty  miles  of  the  shore  of  Africa,  and  it 
has  been  called  the  portal  through  which  Arabian  re- 
finement and  learning  entered  the  peninsula  with  the 
Moors  in  711.  At  the  northeast  corner  of  the  prom- 
ontory stands  the  picturesque  ruin  of  a  once  magnifi- 
cent Moorish  castle,  said  to  be  one  of  the  oldest  build- 
ings in  Spain.  The  Moors  called  Gibraltar  "Tarik's 
Hill,"  and,  beginning  early  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
they  fought  fiercely,  siege  after  siege,  to  recover  it 
from  Spain  for  Mohammed  and  Morocco.  No  sooner 
was  Spain's  possession  confirmed,  1492,  than  other  na- 
tions coveted  the  great  rock,  "emphatically  a  fortress," 
and  centuries  of  complex  wars  for  its  conquest  enliv- 
ened European  nations.  Though  I  believe  England's 
ownership  has  been  undisputed  since  1783,  when  Sir 
George  Augustus  Elliott  led  her  forces  to  victory  after 
four  years'  war  with  France. 

The  Italians  cheered  wildly,  and  we  Americans 
were  quite  as  much  pleased,  on  entering  the  harbor, 


THE  VOYAGE  31 

to  see  the  United  States  flag  unfurled  from  the  main- 
mast of  the  Slavonia,  thereby  indicating  whence  she 
sailed. 

The  little  quarantine  vessel,  with  black  and  yellow 
flags,  steamed  up,  gave  us  a  clean  bill  of  health,  and 
then  bustled  off  to  another  large  ship  with  evident 
pride  in  authority  among  nations.  The  calm  blue  Bay 
of  Gibraltar  was  dotted  with  vessels  of  many  nations, 
and  the  immense  Princess,  of  the  German  Lloyd 
Steamship  Company,  was  just  starting  out.  She  left 
New  York  two  days  after  we  did,  but  reached  Gi- 
braltar half  a  day  ahead  of  us,  paid  a  fashionable  call, 
and  was  now  resuming  her  voyage,  causing  some  com- 
motion, and  the  bay  seemed  stirred  to  its  depths.  Con- 
sequently we  had  an  exciting  time  getting  into  the 
small  vessel  which  carried  us  to  Gibraltar,  for  it  was 
violently  tossed  by  the  waves  in  the  wake  of  the  big 
ship.  Finally  we  descended  the  ladder  lashed  to  the 
side  of  the  ship,  and  one  by  one  the  courageous  and 
the  curious  men  and  women  were  lifted  by  a  strong 
officer  of  the  Slavonia  and  cast  into  the  arms  of  the 
sturdy  and  expectant  sailors  of  the  little  vessel 
below. 

Some  of  the  passengers  preferred  to  remain  on 
board,  and  one  large  woman  did  it  regardless  of  pref- 
erence. She  climbed  down  the  ladder  to  the  officer 
with  strength  in  his  arms,  looked  over  at  the  little 
vessel,  and  then  slowly  climbed  back  to  the  deck  of 
the  Slavonia. 

The  expectant  and  sturdy  sailors  below  laughingly 
declared  she  was  a  wise  as  well  as  a  weighty  woman. 


32  THE  VOYAGE 

A  few  moments  later  we  admired  her  discretion,  for  a 
wave  dashed  into  the  little  boat  and  gave  some  of  us 
a  good  shower  and  a  taste  of  briny  water. 

The  Old  Gentleman  said  it  was  a  bad  business,  but 
was  thrown  overboard,  and  went  on  to  Gibraltar  with 
us.  At  the  pier  we  were  welcomed  by  English, 
Spanish,  Portuguese,  Moors,  Turks,  Africans,  Ara- 
bians, and  other  picturesque  peoples,  who  eagerly 
scanned  our  faces.  Doubtless  some  of  them  were  de- 
scendants of  the  Basques,  who  long  ago  declared  them- 
selves "gentlemen  by  land,  gentlemen  by  sea,  and  gen- 
tlemen in  spite  of  the  devil."  The  swarthy  one  who 
wore  a  long  hooded  cloak  of  brown  broadcloth,  vest 
and  knee-breeches  embroidered  with  gold,  sandals  and 
silk  stockings,  and  carried  a  tan  leather  bag,  embroi- 
dered with  silk  of  many  colors,  said  he  was  "only  a 
Moorish  gentleman." 

After  entering  the  great  stone  portals  of  the  walled 
city  at  the  foot  of  the  promontory,  we  became  pic- 
turesque ourselves,  seated  in  little  open  tan-colored 
carriages,  with  white  muslin  curtains  looped  back  at 
their  four  corners.  The  somber  clothing  of  our  Span- 
ish driver  was  brightened  by  his  green  hat,  green 
cravat,  and  big  handkerchief  which  he  waved  fran- 
tically whenever  he  could  n't  understand  our  questions. 
The  villas  of  English  residents  are  surrounded  with 
luxuriant  gardens,  shade  and  fruit  trees;  and  almond, 
olive,  orange,  lemon,  pomegranate,  and  fig  trees  flour- 
ish in  this  more  than  half  tropical  zone.  The  loquat 
is  similar  to,  if  not  the  same  fruit  we  saw  in  New 
Orleans  unexpectedly  that  day  when  Mrs.  B re- 


THE  VOYAGE  33 

moved  her  little  son's  hat  in  the  parlor  and  a  shower 
of  shining  Japanese  plums  fell  at  our  feet. 

Vegetation  here  is  not  yet  parched  by  the  mid- 
summer sun,  and  even  the  formidable  rock  is  lovely  in 
its  vernal  dress  and  draperies.  The  market  place  was 
alive  with  gayly  clad  children,  who  offered  fruits  and 
flowers  for  sale  as  they  ran  around  among  the  docile 
little  donkeys  loaded  with  casks  of  water  and  great 
panniers  of  burr-artichokes.  The  day  was  warm,  but 
every  woman  wore  a  mantilla  over  her  head  and 
shoulders,  and  seemed   reconciled   to  her  fate. 

The  city  of  Gibraltar  is  old  and  the  streets  are 
narrow,  but  the  governor's  palace,  Protestant  Cathe- 
dral, and  other  State  institutions  are  imposing,  and 
Commercial  Square  is  surrounded  with  substantial 
business  houses.  The  Alemada  and  Victoria  gardens 
are  enchanting  with  fine  trees,  flowering  shrubs,  and 
plants.  The  tall  eucalyptus,  the  gnarled  jejune,  and 
graceful  pepper,  or  pimenta  trees,  with  clusters  of  fra- 
grant white  blossoms,  were  new  to  us.  Flowers  ran 
riot  in  Victoria  gardens  and  were  kept  within  bounds 
by  hedges  of  cactus.  One  fine  plumbago  plant  would 
have  covered  the  side  of  a  cottage  with  its  dainty 
foliage  and  delicate  blue  blossoms;  and  crepe  myrtles, 
oleanders,  and  jasmines  filled  the  atmosphere  with 
delicious  perfume.  A  handsome  plot  commemorates 
the  coronation  of  King  Edward  VII,  his  majesty's 
monogram  and  1901  being  traced  in  plants  of  brilliant 
foliage. 

A  bronze  bust  of  Wellington  upon  a  tall  granite 
shaft  is  conspicuously  placed  and  may  be  seen  from 
3 


34  THE  VOYAGE 

afar.  And  more  imposing  still  is  the  monument  to  the 
valiant  Sir  George  Augustus  Elliott,  which  is  situated 
on  a  lofty  plateau  and  is  reached  by  a  long  flight  of 
broad  stone  steps. 

We  drove  to  Europa  Point  for  the  fine  view  of 
Rosia  Bay  and  the  surrounding  countries.  The  one- 
hundred-ton  gun  up  there  (said  to  be  the  largest  in 
the  world)  is  painted  in  bright  colors  and  at  a  distance 
resembles  a  flower-bed  in  gaudy  array. 

It  is  said  at  times  there  are  30,000  military  men 
and  as  many  soldiers  of  the  navy  stationed  in  the  fort. 
Excavations  in  the  rock  will  hold  supplies  for  five 
years,  and  great  reservoirs  are  filled  with  water  for  do- 
mestic use. 

Torpedo  boats  are  held  in  readiness  should  an  evil 
day  dawn,  and  Wellington's  "Trust  in  the  Lord  and 
keep  your  powder  dry"  seems  to  be  the  policy  at 
present. 

Gibraltar  is  sometimes  called  the  "Hill  of  Caves," 
and  the  walls  with  stalactite  pillars  are  said  to  surpass 
in  beauty  those  in  our  Mammoth  Cave.  In  some  of 
these  caverns  skeletons  of  the  bear,  hyena,  leopard, 
rhinoceros,  ibex,  and  other  wild  animals  are  found, 
and  we  stood  under  an  arch  formed  of  the  jaw-bones 
of  some  mammoth  monster  of  past  aeons. 

We  went  into  some  of  the  shops  and  admired  the 
Maltese  lace  and  other  pretty  articles  which,  some  one 
said,  had  been  priced  for  rich  Americans — of  which 
we  were  not.  We  contented  ourselves  with  a  few 
trifles,  as  there  was  not  time  to  "dicker"  with  the  mer- 
chants. 


THE  VOYAGE  35 

We  saw  a  man  with  a  tin  cup  in  his  hand  driving 
his  herd  of  goats  from  door  to  door,  where  he  milked 
them  and  supplied  his  customers  with  fresh  milk.  I 
was  reminded  of  our  infant  industry  in  goat's  milk  at 
old  Carrollton,  in  the  days  of  Ann  Fisher,  when 
mother  kept  her  contract,  bought  our  one  pound  of 
laboriously-made  butter,  and  sent  it  out  to  be  used  to 
grease   the   carriage   wheels. 

We  saw  a  number  of  Americans  on  the  streets  of 
Gibraltar,  but  recognized  none  of  them.  It  was  good 
to  find  the  New  York  Herald,  but  we  were  saddened 
by  the  news  of  the  death  of  Ex-President  Cleveland. 
The  world  is  richer  for  the  life  and  work  of  this  great 
and  good  man  who  was  honored  by  all  nations. 

Our  return  to  the  Slavonia  was  easy  and  unevent- 
ful. Foreigners  escorted  us  to  the  tender  and  sold  us 
postcards,  huge  paper  fans  with  glaring  pictures  of 
bull-fights,  linen  table-covers  of  drawn-work,  fans  of 
ivory  and  sandalwood,  and  artistic  baskets  filled  with 
green  and  purple  figs,  beautiful  strawberries,  luscious 
apricots,  and  lovely  flowers.  A  boy  offered  us  some 
nuts,  and  with  sinister  smile  a  withered  hag  standing 
near  watched  the  Old  Gentleman  as  he  tried  in  vain 
to  eat  one.  These  may  have  been  the  hard-shelled 
nuts  of  the  karite  tree,  or  possibly  the  dried  seeds  of 
the  dorowa,  edible  in  season,  but  now  as  hard  as  the 
cement  said  to  be  made  in  Africa  of  the  leaves  and 
pods  of  this  tree,  combined  with  other  substances. 

At  three  o'clock  we  sailed  from  Gibraltar,  and 
looking  back  at  the  bold,  defiant  fortress,  with  its  bas- 
tions and  batteries,  from  the  sea-wall  to  the  summit, 


36  THE  VOYAGE 

we  were  impressed  anew  with  the  daring  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  who  captured  and  keeps  it.  He  even  forbids 
neighboring  nations  to  build  fortresses  upon  their  own 
domain,  except  within  limits  prescribed  by  him.  The 
gateway  to  Europe  is  unlocked  to  the  world,  but  old 
England  keeps  the  key,  and  the  nations  of  earth  may 
be  thankful. 

Thursday,  July  2,  1908. 

For  some  hours  after  we  left  Gibraltar  on  Tues- 
day we  skirted  the  coast  of  Spain,  and  then  we  seemed 
to  sail  out  into  mid-ocean  again.  To-day  the  Medi- 
terranean Sea  is  as  calm  as  a  lake,  and  the  Slavonia  is 
as  graceful  as  a  swan  upon  its  vivid  waters.  A  glimpse 
of  the  Island  of  Sardinia,  the  cloudless  skies  and  gentle 
breezes  added  to  our  enjoyment  of  yesterday. 

The  series  of  out-door  sports  on  deck  closed  in  the 
afternoon  with  pillow  rights,  potato  races,  and  other 
laughable  features.  After  the  concert  last  night  prizes 
were  awarded  the  plucky  and  lucky  young  men  who 
have  made  mirthful  hours  for  us.  My  room-mates 
and  I,  not  caring  for  refreshments,  retired  immediately 
after  the  concert,  and  they  were  fast  asleep  when,  with 
a  gentle  tap  on  the  door,  the  thoughtful  Rack-em  ap- 
peared, saying,  "Sandwiches,  ladies?"  The  hospi- 
tality of  the  Slavonia  is  unabated,  and  Rack-em  is  op- 
timistic still. 

Our  bon  voyage  will  soon  be  ended.  We  will 
reach  Naples  to-night,  and  they  say  we  must  enter  the 
harbor  by  ten  o'clock  or  we  '11  not  be  allowed  to  dis- 
embark before  to-morrow.     We  '11  be  happy  to  reach 


THE  VOYAGE  37 

Naples.  For  one  thing,  I  am  tired  of  keeping  the  hat 
with  elongated  brim  on  my  little  bed  all  day  and  un- 
der it  all  night.  My  conundrum  of  the  voyage  is, 
"What  is  more  troublesome  than  living  in  a  suit- 
case?" Living  in  two  suit-cases,  of  course.  At  first 
I  invariably  opened  the  wrong  one,  no  matter  what 
I  needed,  but  I  have  improved,  and  am  now  usually 
clothed,  and  in  my  right  mind  as  well,  when  the  last 
suit-case  is  locked. 

We  will  miss  the  daily  routine  of  the  Slavonia, 
which  has  been  restful  and  refreshing.  Three  times  a 
day  it  has  been  the  bugler's  delight  to  summon  us  to 
the  dining-room  with  the  tune,  "Roast  Beef  of  Merrie 
Old  England,"  except  on  Sundays,  when  he  gave  us 
the  tune  played  by  Westminster  chimes.  The  other 
night,  after  serenading  the  new  arrival,  the  baby- 
subject  of  King  Edward  VII,  he  came  up  from  the 
steerage  modestly  saying,   "I   blowed   them  ladies  to 

bed  down  there."     Miss  R ,  of  artistic  bent,  says 

this  rosy-cheeked  young  bugler  with  blue  eyes  and  red 
hair  might  well  sit  for  a  portrait  of  Cupid. 

We  will  miss  the  smile  of  the  sea.  It  has  been  so 
lovely  in  the  quiet  evenings,  when  the  shades  of  night 
have  fallen  across  the  silvery  waves  and  the  firmament 
hath  shown  God's  handiwork.  Then  in  our  hearts 
we  sang  with  Isaac  Watts,  "In  ever}'  star  Thy  wisdom 
shines."    And  with  Wordsworth  we  have  thought: 

"In  night's  blue  vault 
Sparkle  the  stars,  as  of  their  station  proud." 


38  THE  VOYAGE 

Neither  will  we  forget  the  occasional  frown  of 
the  sea.  One  evening  the  sky  was  overcast  with  heavy- 
clouds,  and  as  the  great  billows  surged  around  us  the 
ocean  was  terrible  in  the  blackness  of  night.  I  thought 
about  Columbus,  and,  as  never  before,  I  marveled  at 
the  faith  which  flooded  his  soul  as  he  sailed  westward. 
According  to  his  faith  Columbus  kept  on,  and  he  found 
the  New  World. 

The  ever-ready  and  obliging  Rack-em  says  I  have 
used  the  "black-lead"  a  great  deal,  and  he  is  not  mis- 
taken. It  has  been  a  comfort  to  imagine  myself  look- 
ing into  the  faces  of  the  dear  ones  in  America  as  I  've 
scribbled  about  these  new  experiences.  Fortunately 
the  "magic  ring"  was  not  packed  in  the  bewildering 
suit-cases,  and  I  have  taken  many  a  peep  through  it 
across  the  seas.  The  one  convenience  and  comfort 
lacking  on  this  ship  is  the  ability  to  hear  from  our 
families  at  moderate  cost. 

Strenuous  days  are  ahead  of  us.  If  we  see  half  the 
interesting  places  in  our  itinerary,  we  shall  read  "ser- 
mons in  stones,"  and  books  in  rocks  and  rills  for  weeks 
to  come;  to  say  nothing  of  the  art-galleries  and  other 
institutions  of  learning  we  shall  visit  day  by  day.  I 
shall  see  a  thousand  things  I  've  always  desired  to  see, 
and  ten  thousand  times  I  shall  wish  for  you. 

I  have  been  most  fortunate  in  escaping  sea-sickness. 
Brainstorm  has  been  held  at  bay,  and  I  have  partaken 
of  pigeons,  chickens,  ducklings,  geese,  turkeys,  beef, 
and  mutton.  The  "ravigote"  and  the  "jambon  au 
diable"  we  discretely  passed  on  to  the  sphinx  seated 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table.     I  have  "brought  up" 


THE  VOYAGE  39 

nothing  but  recollections  and  reminiscences  from  mem- 
ory's treasure  house  for  my  own  benefit,  and  "tips" 
(from  the  pocketbook)  for  the  sympathetic  Hungarian 
stewardess  and  stewards  of  the  cabin,  the  deck,  the 
dining-saloon,  bathroom,  for  boots  and  the  bugler,  the 
obliging  servants  of  the  Slavonic  I  have  learned  the 
meaning  of  "ship-shape,"  and  that  no  habitation  on 
the  dusty  fourth  of  this  terrestrial  globe  may  be  so 
called  again. 

We  know  not  whether  any  ship  ever  came  exactly 
this  way  or  ever  will  again,  for  our  shining  pathway 
has  been  obliterated  even  as  we  looked  back  upon  it. 
The  classic  Mediterranean  teems  with  associations  of 
centuries  of  civilization,  and  its  history,  wonderful  in 
fact,  has  all  the  charm  of  tales  of  lambent  fancy, 
though  but  half  remembered  now. 

Through  you  I  should  like  to  advise  your  son  and 
daughters  and  their  young  friends  to  read  history  and 
biography  with  the  hope,  if  not  expectation,  of  going 
to  Europe  some  day.  I  am  sure  this  habit  would  en- 
able them  to  so  grasp  the  historical  settings  of  great 
events  that  they  might  easily  and  with  infinite  pleasure 
be  recalled  in  later  life. 

And  I  covet  for  these  young  friends  a  kindly  dis- 
position towards  all  men.  The  little  flower-boats  we 
used  to  sail  on  the  old  mill-race  at  the  foot  of  the 
grove  at  Carrollton  never  reached  their  destination  on 
foreign  shores,  but  I  know  now  they  strengthened  that 
spirit  of  kindliness  towards  all  nations  which  was  in- 
culcated around  the  fireside  and  whereof  I  am  glad 
to-day. 


40  THE  VOYAGE 

Sailing  on  the  Mediterranean,  who  of  our  Chris- 
tian nation  could  fail  to  take  courage  and  thank  God 
for  Paul's  "journeyings  oft"  to  spread  the  gospel  of 
Christ  which  from  these  shores  has  gone  to  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth  for  the  salvation  of  men. 

In  our  party  of  twelve  Southerners  (eight  ladies 
and  four  gentlemen),  Alabama,  Georgia,  Missouri, 
Tennessee,  and  Arkansas  are  well  represented.  We  've 
always  been  neighbors,  and  it 's  a  small  matter  that 
we  had  never  met  face  to  face  before  starting  on  our 
tour  of  Europe.  The  heroic  struggle  and  Christian 
endeavor  of  our  forefathers  and  the  one  defeat  of  our 
fathers  which  added  glory  to  a  good  name  is  our  com- 
mon heritage.  We  cherish  the  traditions  and  truths 
of  the  Southland,  and  together  we  own  her  sacred  and 
royal  history.  We  are  proud  of  our  birthright,  and 
doubtless  the  pleasant  acquaintance  begun  on  ship- 
board will  ripen  into  lasting  friendship. 


ITALY 

Naples,  Capri,  Pompeii. 

July  3,  1908. 

NAPLES,   QUEEN   OF  THE   BEWITCHING   BAY. 

We  entered  the  Bay  of  Naples  early  in  the  even- 
ing, amid  the  shifting  scenes  of  twilight  under  the 
brightly-tinted  skies  of  Italy.  Nature  was  robed  in 
blue  and  purple  and  emerald,  and  her  supernal  beauty 
was  mirrored  in  the  still  waters  of  the  bay.  The  queen 
of  night  sped  swiftly  in  her  chariot  of  gleaming  silver, 
and  the  slender  crescent  passed  beyond  the  horizon  as 
the  golden  stars  came  forth  to  illuminate  the  heavens. 
Myriads  of  little  lights  sparkled  along  the  shore  and 
seemed  to  encircle  the  bay.  We  had  rather  a  tedious 
time  getting  ashore,  as  the  passengers  in  the  steerage 
were  allowed  to  disembark  first.  It  was  a  pleasure, 
however,  to  see  their  delight  on  touching  native  land 
and  to  hear  joyous  greetings  from  their  friends  assem- 
bled to  welcome  them  home. 

Our  drive  through  the  city  and  up  on  the  heights 
to  Hotel  Bristol  gave  us  a  glimpse  of  Naples  by  gas- 
light, but  we  were  too  weary  to  linger  on  the  way. 
Nor  did  we  converse  long  after  our  late  but  excellent 

41 


42  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

dinner.  The  chaperon  and  I  were  assigned  a  hand- 
some suite  of  rooms  with  tesselated  floors,  luxurious 
mirrors,  and  fine  old  furniture.  From  our  balcony 
we  looked  down  at  this  city  of  terraces,  for  Naples  is 
built  on  a  hill  rising  as  an  amphitheater  out  of  the 
lovely  bay.  Sounds  of  merriment  and  snatches  of  song 
floated  on  the  air,  and  Naples  reveled  in  midnight 
festivities. 

This  morning  I  awoke  much  refreshed,  but  mysti- 
fied by  ruffles  of  unfamiliar  lace  on  my  sleeves.  It 
developed  that  last  night  I  had  unlocked  the  chap- 
eron's suit-case,  the  one  like  mine  and  placed  in  my 
room  by  mistake,  and  appropriated  her  night-dress 
without  knowing  it.  The  comedy  of  the  suit-cases 
progresses. 

It  was  my  turn  to  laugh,  and  pay  too,  an  hour  later 
when  the  chaperon  and  I  sent  a  joint  message  by 
cable  to  Little  Rock.  She  had  told  her  family  that  a 
cablegram  of  less  than  two  words  would  signify  we  'd 
had  a  rough  passage  and  sea-sickness,  however  cheery 
the  one  word  might  read.  Her  cipher  cable  was  orig- 
inal and  unique.  It  was  like  keeping  yourself  well 
and  paying  the  doctor.  Two  words  were  cabled,  and 
Pandora's  box  was  not  opened  in  Arkansas  by  the 
tidings  from  fortunate  travelers. 

We  find  beautiful  Naples  smiling,  chattering,  sing- 
ing, and  romping  like  a  happy  child,  with  no  regret 
for  the  past  and  small  thought  for  the  future.  And 
who  can  wonder,  when  her  vine-clad  hills,  her  olive 
and  lemon  groves  rejoice  in  abundance,  and  the  Bay 
of  Naples  is  married  to  the  Mediterranean  Sea? 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  43 

In  the  sunlight  of  to-day  the  Islands  Capri  and 
Ischia  glisten  like  gems  on  the  bosom  of  the  bay,  and 
the  cruelty  of  Tiberius  is  forgotten.  Nor  far  off 
Mt.  Vesuvius  keeps  silent  vigil,  and  no  one  expects 
a  repetition  of  his  wrathful  vengeance  upon  a  pleasure- 
loving  people.  Picturesque  old  castles  crown  the  hills, 
but  their  watch-towers  are  deserted  and  their  crum- 
bling ramparts  are  covered  with  vines  and  flowers. 
We  are  in  the  land  of  poetry,  music,  and  laughter,  and 
even  the  beggars  are  happy  for  centissime.  And,  by 
the  way,  I  do  not  see  so  many  beggars  as  I  expected 
to  find  here.  Nor  do  I  see  so  many  beautiful  faces, 
though  there  is  a  pleasing  cheerfulness  in  almost  every 
countenance. 

The  cab-drivers  call  out  to  one  another  in  sharp 
tones  and  approach  with  menacing  gesture,  but  on  meet- 
ing they  burst  into  laughter  and  are  the  best  of  friends. 
A  cab  may  be  had  for  two  lire  (forty  cents)  an  hour, 
and  charming  roads  lead  in  every  direction. 

The  Province  of  Naples  was  originally  dominated 
by  a  Greek  colony,  but  it  has  been  seized  and  subdued 
successively  by  the  Roman,  Norman,  German,  French, 
and  Spanish  peoples;  since  1S61  it  has  belonged  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Italy.  Naples  has  been  the  favorite  place 
of  residence  of  Roman  emperors  and  the  nobility  of 
Italy,  and  it  is  now  her  largest  city,  with  a  population 
of  more  than  600,000.  The  Via  Roma  here  is  said 
to  be  the  most  densely  populated  street  in  Europe. 
The  climate  is  bracing  and,  since  pure  water  is  brought 
from  a  spring  in  the  hills  thirty  miles  away,  it  is  no 
longer   good  form  to  "see  Naples  and  die."     There 


44  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

are  three  hundred  churches  here,  and  some  of  them  are 
richly  embellished  with  paintings,  mosaics,  and  fres- 
coes. The  museum  and  art  galleries  contain  many 
treasures,  including  gems  of  the  Etruscan  and  Greek 
periods,  bronzes  from  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  and 
the  celebrated  Farnese  sculptures.  Colossal  statues  of 
marble  adorn  the  exterior  of  the  royal  palaces,  and  by 
their  court  costumes  the  Norseman,  the  Crusader,  and 
many  stern  rulers  are  readily  recognized.  The  Mar- 
gherita  Villa,  situated  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  has 
graceful  towers  and  turrets,  and  the  high  wall  is 
adorned  with  jardinieres  filled  with  scarlet  carnations 
at  present. 

This  afternoon  Miss  H and  I  drove  around 

the  city,  and  we  met  the  finely-appointed  equipages 
of  noble  ladies,  handsomely  gowned  for  their  fashion- 
able afternoon  pastime.  We  went  into  the  imposing  St. 
Francis  Cathedral  and  saw  fine  pictures  in  mosaics  and 
much  ornate  woodwork  in  chapels  and  elsewhere.  Reli- 
gious services  were  being  held  in  one  of  the  chapels,  and 
we  lingered  there  a  few  moments  in  silence.  We  went 
into  a  few  shops  and  saw  lovely  cameos,  corals,  and 
tortoise-shell  ornaments.     This  is  said  to  be  the  best 

place  in  Europe  to  buy  cameos.     Miss  H bought 

several  pairs  of  very  cheap  kid  gloves  from  a  manu- 
facturer she  patronized  on  a  former  tour  of  Europe, 
and  I  selected  a  pair  which  fitted  fairly  well  and  cost 
only  thirty-five  cents.  Before  we  reached  the  hotel 
my  gloves  had  stretched  a  size  too  large,  and  they  are 
stretching  still. 

The  markets  are  filled  with  flowers,  and  boys  and 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  45 

girls  ran  after  us  with  bouquets  of  jasmine  blossoms, 
Parma  violets,  and  exquisite  roses  like  the  Marechal 
Niel  with  a  trace  of  coral  in  its  petals.  The  diminu- 
tive donkey  of  the  French  fable  is  here,  but  his  pros- 
pect of  a  friendly  lift  has  been  indefinitely  postponed. 
He  is  either  hitched  to  the  family  cart  crowded  with 
children,  or  is  almost  smothered  between  two  great 
panniers  filled  with  fruits  and  vegetables  for  the  mar- 
ket, with  now  and  then  a  baby  thrown  on  top  for  a 
ride. 

It  is  easy  to  learn  Italian  money,  but  the  abbre- 
viations used  in  bills  are  a  little  confusing  at  first. 
A  charge  of  "25  cts.  un  Oeuf"  seemed  an  exorbitant 
price  for  the  one  egg  ordered  at  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing, but  it  proved  to  be  just  five  cents  of  our  good 
money.  In  Italy  "cts."  stands  for  centissime,  five  of 
which  are  equivalent  to  our  penny.  Our  continental 
breakfast  of  rolls  with  butter  and  coffee  is  supple- 
mented with  honey  fit  for  the  gods.  Of  course  the 
rolls  are  cold,  but  they  are  crisp  and  good.  For 
luncheon  and  dinner  we  have  a  variety  of  good  things, 
and  the  fine  figs,  the  immense  cherries  (red  and  pink 
like  corals),  and  golden  apricots  are  beyond  compare. 

The  little  "lift"  or  elevator  in  this  hotel  is  a  useful 
modern  innovation  slipped  in  the  wall  of  the  grand 
marble  stairway.  It  comes  up  empty  and  always  seems 
to  know  when  and  where  to  stop.  It  would  be  inter- 
esting to  see  what  would  happen  if  a  passenger  changed 
her  mind  and  wished  to  go  higher  instead  of  lower, 
but  there  is  no  time  for  experiments  and  the  secret 
of  the  little  elevator's  sagacity  is  safe. 


46  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 


CAPRI. 

The  pleasure  in  our  excursion  to  Capri  surpassed 
all  expectation.  The  succession  of  charming  pastoral 
scenes  skirting  the  Bay  of  Naples  recalled  idyls  of  the 
poets  of  old.  This  is  the  land  of  the  goatherd  with 
capering  flocks  and  the  shepherdess  of  snow-white 
sheep.  Hercules  and  Omphale  are  making  love  to 
each  other  to-day.  She  is  knitting  as  he  gazes  into  her 
face,  and  their  flocks  browse  together  contentedly 
among  the  moss-covered  rocks. 

Our  little  steamer  went  merrily ;  it  was  the  Reg'ina 
Elena,  named  for  Italy's  beautiful  queen,  the  beloved 
wife  of  King  Victor  Emmanuel.  Our  enjoyment  of 
that  rare  day  was  heightened  by  music  and  melody 
from  a  quintet  of  Italians  on  the  steamer  who  per- 
formed well  on  guitar  and  violin  and  three  of  them 
sang  almost  divinely.  We  passed  Sorrento,  the  birth- 
place of  the  poet  Tasso,  and  not  far  off  was  Posilippo, 
where  Virgil's  tomb  is  sacredly  guarded. 

Sorrento  is  a  favorite  summer  resort  of  the  Ital- 
ians, and  is  much  frequented  in  winter  by  English  and 
American  visitors.  The  villas,  Oriental  in  architecture 
and  colorings,  seem  to  rest  upon  houses  cut  in  the 
stone  below.  Anyhow,  there  are  doors,  windows,  and 
balconies  cut  into  these  soft  stone  cliffs,  and  private 
stairways  lead  down  to  the  bathing  grounds  along  the 
bay.  The  little  bath-houses  are  fantastic  in  red  and 
yellow  stripes;  they  stand  on  stilts,  as  if  to  avoid  get- 
ting wet  feet. 

Our   first  stop  was  at   the   famous   Blue   Grotto, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  47 

which  we  entered  in  tiny  rowboats,  bowing  our  heads 
until  safely  through  the  narrow  and  low  entrance  to 
the  cavern.  The  lofty,  vaulted  ceiling  was  even 
brighter  than  the  intensely  blue  waters  below,  and  it 
was  a  weird  place  by  torchlight,  especially  when  the 
almost  naked  boy  dived  to  show  his  silvery  form  and 
to  pick  up  the  bits  of  coin  thrown  by  the  spectators 
from  the  boats.  The  Blue  Grotto  is  certainly  very 
wonderful,  for  it  is  painted  by  nature's  hand  with  her 
own  cobalt. 

The  island  Capri  is  rugged  and  rocky,  but  it  is 
clothed  in  verdure  fair.  Capri  and  Anacapri  are  the 
quaint  villages  of  flat-roofed  houses,  white,  buff,  and 
pink  on  the  summit  of  the  island.  Roads  cut  in  the 
stone  by  the  Romans  are  still  used,  and  our  drive  up 
to  Excelsior  Park  Hotel  was  very  interesting.  Our 
carriage  horses  were  decorated  with  red  pompons,  and 
two  of  them  had  long  pheasant  feathers  in  their  head- 
gear. Plants  clinging  to  the  overhanging  walls  hid 
their  roots  in  crevices  covered  with  dainty  foliage  and 
purple  blossoms,  and  red  poppies  bloomed  all  along  the 
way.  We  passed  little  shrines  cut  in  these  walls  of 
soft  stone,  and  invariably  flowers  had  been  recently 
laid  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin  and  Child.  One  shrine 
near  the  quay  at  Naples  is  under  the  boat-shed  and 
enclosed  with  a  tall  iron  fence,  yet  vines  are  flourishing 
and  flowers  are  blooming  around  the  Madonna  and 
Child  in  this  tiny  spot.     The  spirit  of  worship  is  here. 

On  the  Island  Capri  the  groves  of  fig,  lemon,  and 
olive  trees  are  luxuriant,  and  the  grace  of  the  vine- 
yards is  enchanting.     The  garlands  of  vine  and  ten- 


48  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

dril  and  their  clusters  of  shining  grapes  are  divinely 
fashioned.  Here  is  inspiration  for  painter  and  sculptor 
and  poet.  If  the  vintage  time  is  more  beautiful  than 
summer,  Bacchus  has  reason  to  revel  in  the  glories  of 
autumn. 

We  passed  a  very  ancient  church  surrounded  by 
crumbling  tombs,  and  many  names  and  dates  of  his- 
toric interest  were  chiseled  on  the  walls  of  enclosure, 
built  centuries  ago.  At  the  hotel  we  were  welcomed 
by  smiling  women  and  girls  with  corals  and  cameos 
for  sale,  and  even  their  wares  were  picturesque.  The 
strings  of  tiny  pink,  pearl-shaped  corals  suggested  dim- 
pled babyhood.  The  delicate  white  ones  reminded  us 
of  the  treasures  said  to  exist  in  fairyland.  The  very 
jagged  scarlet  necklaces  might  have  been  worn  by  the 
Furies  of  ancient  times. 

Our  luncheon  was  served  in  the  garden  under  a 
canopy,  to  soften  the  rays  of  the  midday  sun,  and  from 
there  we  had  fine  views  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  its 
beautiful  isles.  Traces  of  the  twelve  villas  of  the 
cruel  Tiberius  were  pointed  out,  also  the  precipice  over 
which  the  victims  of  his  wrath  were  hurled  into  the 
sea.  The  watchful  Mt.  Vesuvius  loomed  up  in  the 
distance,  a  soft  white  cloud  ever  resting  upon  his 
scarred  brow. 

We  were  ready  for  luncheon,  and  the  bread  and 
butter,  sardines,  and  other  relishes  on  the  tables  were 
quickly    disposed    of,    and,    as   a    picnic    feast    seemed 

appropriate  for  gardens  and  terraces,  Mr.  M had 

these  dishes  replenished.  The  second  installment  of 
"relishes"    had    about   vanished    when    the    soup    was 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  49 

brought  in,  and  a  hot  luncheon  of  several  courses  was 
served.  The  repast  ended  with  green-gage  plums,  cher- 
ries, apricots,  and  green  almonds,  ripe  but  not  dried 
yet.  We  walked  about  the  gardens,  tried  to  guess 
whom  the  old  statuary  represented,  and  suddenly  dis- 
covered steps  cut  into  the  stone  leading  to  an  old  palace 
above  our  hotel.  But  for  time  wasted  on  "relishes" 
we  might  have  ascended  the  hidden  stairway  and  ex- 
plored this  ruin  of  ancient  grandeur.  Pictures  of 
beautiful  Capri,  laved  by  the  laughing  waters  and 
luxuriating  in  eternal  sunshine,  will  hang  in  memory's 
hall  through  the  years  to  come.  My  souvenirs  of  the 
day  are  a  tiny  pink  cameo  for  a  cravat  pin,  a  string 
of  dimpled  coral,  and  a  tortoise-shell  guitar  inlaid  with 
mother-of-pearl,  though,  being  less  than  five  inches 
long,  it  did  not  cost  a  small  fortune. 

On  our  return  to  Naples  we  walked  from  the  quay 
up  into  the  city,  and  we  saw  an  old  woman  on  the 
street  in  charge  of  a  dozen  little  boys  and  girls;  she 
had  a  whip  in  her  hand,  and  several  of  the  children 
were  tied  together  with  a  stout  cord.  As  we  ap- 
proached the  half-starved  hag  cracked  the  long  whip, 
thrust  her  bony  hand  into  our  faces,  and  instantly  the 
children  became  whining  beggars,  besetting  us  on  every 
side.  This  medieval  institution,  and  really  a  school 
for  crime,  contrasted  strangely  with  the  first  Ameri- 
can day-nursery  I  ever  saw,  when  down  in  the  grove 
black  "Mammy  Mandy"  took  care  of  the  babies  and 
little  children  of  father's  slaves  who  worked  in  the 
fields  at  "Carrollton."  Those  black  pickaninnies  of 
the  Southern  plantation  jumped  and  jabbered  as  they 
4 


50  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

played  under  the  trees  all  day;  but  these  miserable 
Italian  children  looked  as  though  they  had  never 
laughed  nor  had  enough  to  eat  in  their  lives.  This 
is  the  one  sad  picture  I  shall  carry  from  Naples,  and 
I  only  hope  there  is  not  such  another  woeful  group 
in   Italy  to-day. 

July  4,   1908. 

POMPEII,  THE  BURIED  CITY. 

To-day  we  went  to  Pompeii  and  glanced  back 
through  more  than  eighteen  centuries.  The  horror 
of  the  destruction  of  Pompeii  by  the  eruption  of  Mt. 
Vesuvius,  A.  D.  79,  in  the  reign  of  Titus,  is  lost  sight 
of  in  the  search  for  historical  antiquities.  Science  is 
cold  and  heartless,  but  the  excavations  and  explora- 
tions, mainly  by  Englishmen,  have  been  conducted  as 
cautiously  as  possible.  The  sand  or  lava  from  the 
volcano,  which  seemed  to  bury  Pompeii  beyond  the 
recall  of  men,  really  preserved  it  for  the  study  of 
generations  to  come  centuries  later.  That  men  of 
these  days,  in  the  interest  of  science,  should  have  per- 
sisted until  the  buried  city  was  located  and  its  treasures 
unearthed  seems  most  wonderful  of  all  to  me. 

Evidences  of  the  terrors  and  the  horrors  of  the 
catastrophe  are  preserved  in  the  museum,  and  the  skel- 
etons of  several  human  beings  and  domestic  animals 
seem  to  writhe  in  never-ending  agony.  We  did  not 
linger  there,  nor  did  we  desire  a  crumb  of  the  burnt 
and  blackened  bread  which  was  taken  from  the  broken 
ovens  of   79  A.  D.      Comparatively  speaking,   only  a 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  51 

few  men  and  women  perished  that  awful  day,  but 
enougli  lives  were  lost  to  lengthen  the  shadow  of  dis- 
aster athwart  the  history  of  the  world. 

Dr.  Henry  M.  Field  says  the  plain  narrative  of 
the  destruction  of  Pompeii  by  Pliny  is  as  terrible  as 
the  imagination  of  Bulwer  or  any  man  could  picture 
it.  And  no  wonder,  for  Pliny  not  only  witnessed  the 
great  catastrophe,  but  his  heart  was  torn  with  grief 
in  the  death  of  his  uncle,  the  elder  Pliny,  who  per- 
ished in  the  effort  to  gain  close  observation  of  the 
volcano  in  eruption. 

We  walked  the  streets  of  Pompeii,  paved  with 
slabs  of  prehistoric  lava,  and  saw  the  ruts  worn  by  the 
wheels  of  Roman  chariots  more  than  2,000  years  ago. 
In  these  silent  and  desolate  thoroughfares,  ruin  and 
disaster  cling  to  each  other.  The  lofty  marble  pillars 
of  temple  and  forum,  statuary  in  the  gardens,  and 
frescoes  on  palace  walls  record  the  days  of  delight  and 
luxury.  The  industries,  graces,  and  beauties  of  this 
ancient  city  of  Greco-Roman  culture  are  revealed  to- 
day by  the  stately  ruins  of  Pompeii.  We  walked 
through  the  roofless  ruins  of  shops,  dwellings,  palaces, 
theaters,  forums,  and  temples,  and  one  might  easily 
get  lost  in  this  labyrinth  of  ruins.  Our  guide  pointed 
out  what  had  been  the  most  important  public  build- 
ings, which  were  grouped  around  the  Forum,  the 
principal  market-place  of  the  city.  Many  of  the 
famous  structures  have  been  identified  by  the  massive 
pillars  and  Corinthian  capitals  and  the  fluted  columns, 
which  are  broken  but  yet  grand  and  imposing.  An 
inscription  in  the  pavement  designates  the  Temple  of 


52  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

Apollo,  and  a  marble  bust  found  within  its  walls 
identifies  the  Temple  of  Jupiter. 

Near  the  Triangular  Forum  are  two  theaters  and 
the  gymnasium  of  the  gladiators,  but  mirth  and  ap- 
plause died  with  the  pleasure-seekers.  The  splendid 
baths  of  marble,  richly  ornamented  with  the  Numidian 
lion  and  other  figures  in  bas-relief,  were  once  the  pride 
of  Pompeii's  luxurious  men.  The  chemist's  shop  is 
recognized  by  the  painted  serpent  on  the  wall,  and  a 
bit  of  dainty  sculpture  (the  marble  now  the  color  of 
ivory)  adorns  the  doorway  to  the  sculptor's  roofless 
studio.  Here  is  an  old  restaurant  where  the  viands 
were  kept  hot  by  fires  under  the  stone  counter  from 
which  they  were  served,  and  in  another  one  the  maca- 
roni pot  and  gridiron  have  rested  upon  dead  embers 
through  these  centuries.  Great  wine  jars  are  standing 
in  the  cellars;  here  are  the  stones  once  used  for  grind- 
ing grain,  and  lead  pipes,  all  twisted  and  warped, 
indicate  a  system  of  waterworks. 

The  dwellings,  of  Oriental  architecture,  were  built 
around  open  courts,  and  their  rooms  were  adorned 
with  frescoes,  paintings,  statuettes,  and  small  fountains 
of  delicate  perfumes.  The  House  of  the  Vettii  has 
been  roofed  and  preserved  as  it  was  originally,  and  the 
mythological  and  allegorical  scenes  painted  on  the  red 
walls  are  still  interesting  and  beautiful.  In  a  banquet 
hall  we  noticed  a  painting  of  Hercules  strangling  the 
serpent ;  while  in  another  the  frieze  represents  in  a 
series  of  pictures  the  "Amorini,''  graceful  in  sport  and 
often  at  work,  very  unlike  our  traditional  Cupid,  who 
toils  not,  neither  does  he  spin.     These  winged  Amorini 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  53 

are  in  groups,  playing  games  or  intent  on  occupations 
of  domestic  life.  They  are  starting  out  to  war  with 
shields  and  spears,  mounted  on  capering  goats.  They 
are  racing  in  chariots  drawn  by  stags,  and  the  chariot- 
eers urge  their  steeds  to  greater  speed.  These  beauti- 
ful Amorini  are  pounding  herbs  in  a  mortar,  perhaps 
making  love-philters.  They  are  even  making  money, 
smelting  the  metal,  hammering  it  on  anvils,  and  weigh- 
ing the  coin  in  the  scales.  They  are  celebrating  the 
festival  of  flowers,  and  are  gathering  grapes  for  the 
vintage.  They  have  kindled  the  fire  on  an  altar  to 
offer  sacrifice  to  Fortuna.  These  frescoes  and  friezes 
are  charming,  but  the  banquet  halls  are  deserted  and 
the  footfall  of  the  descendants  of  strangers  alone  re- 
sounds in  the  House  of  the  Vettii. 

Here  are  gardens  with  marble  seats,  statuary,  and 
fountains,  but  the  seats  are  vacant,  the  statuary  is 
broken,  and  the  fountains  will  never  play  again.  No 
sound  of  merriment  is  heard  in  the  theater,  and  the 
gymnasium  is  as  still  as  the  grave.  The  basillica  for 
the  administration  of  justice  is  dismantled  and  over- 
thrown; the  pillars  of  the  temple  are  crumbling,  and 
no  worshiper  is  there ;  the  eloquence  of  the  Forum 
is  hushed  forever;  the  market-place  is  desolate.  Yet 
there  is  no  disorder  in  the  streets  of  Pompeii.  The 
stillness  of  the  tomb  broods  over  it,  but  the  comforting 
aspect  of  a  cemetery  is  lacking,  for  these  crumbling 
columns  tell  of  life's  fitful  fever  ended  by  direful  catas- 
trophe. Man's  delight  in  things  temporal  is  recorded 
here.  The  curtain  has  been  lifted  from  the  past  that 
the  present  may  take  heed  for  the  future.     The  echo 


54  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

of  the  stately  ruins,  "All  is  vanity,"  was  spoken  by 
the  preacher  of  all  ages.  The  uncertainty  of  life  is 
impressed  by  the  scene,  and  it  is  a  consolation  to  think 
of  the  rest  that  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God. 

We  will  love  to  recall  Nature's  kindly  smile  upon 
the  stately  ruins  of  Pompeii.  Scarlet  poppies  and 
morning-glories,  blue  and  white  and  pink,  bloomed 
along  the  deserted  streets,  and  exquisite  ferns  peeped 
from  crevices  under  shattered  doorways.  Not  far  off 
Mt.  Vesuvius  lifted  his  face  to  the  sunny  skies,  obliv- 
ious of  all  calamity,  and  the  soft  white  cloud  encircled 
his  scarred  but  noble  brow.  I  thought  I  saw  faint 
smoke  ascend  as  incense  to  the  heavens,  but  Miss 
H said  it  was  only  a  passing  cloud. 

An  hour's  ride  by  electric  train  brought  us  back 
to  Naples,  and  it  was  good  to  come  into  this  beautiful 
city  of  life,  laughter,  and  song.  In  Pompeii  we  met 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  B ,  fellow  passengers  of  the  Sla- 
vonics, and  her  pedometer  will  probably  record  millions 
of  steps  taken  and  thousands  of  miles  walked  before 
they  sail  homeward  in  August. 

The  other  party  of  Southerners,  our  good  friends 
of  the  Slavonia,  are  stopping  in  this  hotel,  and  to-day 
the  Old  Gentleman  has  worn  a  tiny  American  flag  as  a 
boutonniere.  He  regrets  not  being  able  to  celebrate 
the  Fourth  of  July,  but  says  he  "would  n't  have  done 
this  much  in  England,"  as  he  has  a  great  respect  and 
admiration  for  our  vanquished  foe  of  former  days. 

On  our  drive  yesterday  we  saw  a  tall,  slender 
figure  disappear  around  a  corner,  and  verily  it  was 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  55 

Mr.  Granddaddy  Longlegs,  still  gesticulating  as  he 
passed  through  the  streets  of  Naples. 

I  have  resurrected  a  few  French  phrases  which 
proved  useful,  and  these  foreigners  are  too  polite  to 
smile   at  my   absurd   mispronunciation. 

At  half-past  six  o'clock  this  evening  we  will  leave 
for  Rome. 


ROME 

A  Day  of  Rest  —  St.  Peter's  Cathedral  — 
Pilgrims  and  Protestants  See  the  Pope  — 
Monuments,  Museums,  and  Memorials  — 
Churches,  Crypts,  and  Cemeteries  —  Pal- 
aces and  Prisons. 

Sunday,  June  5,  1908. 

A  DAY  OF  REST  IN   ROME. 

We  left  Naples  yesterday  afternoon,  and  the 
charm  of  that  beautiful  city,  set  upon  a  hill,  abides 
with  us.  With  queenly  grace  and  smile  of  joyous 
possession  she  looked  down  upon  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
which  glistened  like  rubies,  pearls,  and  amethysts  in 
the  sunset  glow.  In  the  distance  Capri  and  Ischia, 
islands  of  enchantment,  gleamed  in  the  golden  splendor 
of  the  evening  light.  The  ruby  tints  of  the  skies 
brightened  the  soft  white  cloud  encircling  the  scarred 
brow  of  Mt.  Vesuvius,  that  monarch  always  serene 
and  majestic  despite  his  robe  of  sackcloth  and  ashes. 
The  glories  of  the  sunset  faded  away,  and  the  shimmer 
of  moonlight  transformed  the  earth  and  added  mystery 
to  its  beauty. 

As  is  the  custom  of  Europe,  we  were  shut  up  in 
compartments   of    the    train,    and    our    suit-cases    and 

56 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  57 

satchels  were  piled  in  racks  over  our  heads — and  we 
hoped  they  would  not  take  a  tumble. 

The  first  evidence  of  haste  seen  in  Italy  was  on 
this  train  when  dinner  was  served.  The  macaroni  was 
really  delicious,  and  the  waiters  were  excusable  for 
being  in  a  hurry  to  get  their  share.  The  dinner  was 
good  throughout,  but  the  toothsomeness  of  macaroni 
over  here  passes  belief.  We  Americans  had  a  sociable 
time  in  the  dining-car,  but  the  fine-looking  Englishman 
and  his  wife  across  the  aisle  ate  to  sustain  life.  They 
exchanged  glances  occasionally  and  were  heroic  in  their 
silent  endeavor  to  be  prepared  to  fast  all  night.  It  was 
nearly  midnight  when  the  old  Roman  acqueducts 
loomed  up  before  us  and  we  entered  the  portals  of  the 
Eternal  City. 

The  Grand  Hotel  du  Quirinal,  located  in  a  lovely 
section  of  Rome,  is  complete  and  beautiful  in  its  ap- 
pointments and  our  rooms  are  bright  and  attractive. 
I  was  waked  early  this  morning  by  the  birds  singing 
in  their  leafy  tabernacles,  and  soon  every  housetop  was 
gilded,  and  trees,  domes,  columns,  and  spires  glittered 
in  the  light  of  a  new  day.  A  little  later,  in  rich  con- 
tralto voice,  the  man  sweeping  the  courtyard  below 
chanted  a  prayer  in  soft,  sympathetic  Italian.  This 
restful  and  lovely  Sunday  morning  was  a  fore-gleam 
of  my  first  eventful  day  in  Rome.  The  old  proverb, 
"Good  news  from  a  far  country  is  like  water  to  a 
thirsty  soul,"  proved  true,  and  I  was  refreshed  by 
letters  from  home. 

After  breakfast  (served  in  our  rooms  on  the  rest- 


58  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

day)  I  sauntered  around  the  pretty  garden  of  the 
hotel,  and  was  charmed  to  find  white  and  pink  olean- 
ders, scarlet  geraniums,  crimson  pelargoniums,  and 
other  old  favorites  of  the  floral  kingdom.  The  invit- 
ing grotto  of  rocks,  covered  with  ivy  and  always  cool, 
was  enlivened  by  caged  birds.  The  little  canaries 
sang  happily  in  duets  and  choruses  and  rejoiced  in  the 
protection  of  gilded  cages.  Two  large  blue  birds,  with 
an  occasional  note  of  protest,  flitted  incessantly  in  their 
cage  and  rebelled  against  imprisonment.  They  resem- 
bled our  jay  birds,  but  were  larger  and  darker  in  color, 
with  a  touch  of  red  on  their  wings.  Possibly  they 
were  burdened  with  neglect  of  duty,  being  unable  to 
carry  weekly  report  of  bad  children  to  the  "Ole  Bad 
Man"  in  regions  below,  as  our  old  black  mammies 
in  the  South  used  to  declare  the  jaybirds  did  every 
Friday. 

The  first  meeting-place  of  our  party  for  the  day 
was  at  luncheon,  and  the  enclosed  menu  will  show  you 
that  good  things  are  set  before  us  in  this  hotel. 

Lunch  a  12. 

Omelette  a.  la  Paysanne 

Cote  de  Coeuf  Provencale 

Pommes  Brioches 

Viande  froide  a  la  gelee 

Salade 

Fromage  &  Beurre 

Fruits  &  Dessert. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  59 

st.  peter's  cathedral. 

This  afternoon  we  attended  service  at  St.  Peter's 
Cathedral,  the  approach  to  which  somewhat  prepared 
us  for  the  interior  grandeur  and  magnificence  of  the 
Cathedral.  Circular  colonnades,  formed  of  four  rows 
of  marble  columns  nearly  fifty  feet  high,  enclose  the 
area  in  front  and  lead  up  to  the  Cathedral.  A  mighty 
Egyptian  obelisk,  said  to  be  the  oldest  thing  in  Rome, 
stands  in  the  center  of  this  open  square,  and  it  is  good 
to  see  this  monumental  relic  of  Paganism  now  bearing 
aloft  the  Cross  of  Christ.  On  each  side  of  the  square 
is  a  tall,  graceful  fountain,  enwrapped  in  a  magical 
mist  of  rippling  waters.  The  great  Cathedral  is  awe- 
inspiring.  Its  majestic  dome  pierces  the  clouds  and  is 
a  monument  of  marvelous  beauty  to  the  architect, 
sculptor,  and  painter,  Michael  Angelo,  who  designed 
it.  This  wonderful  dome  was  not  changed  when  his 
Greek  design  for  the  Cathedral  was  lengthened  into 
a  Latin  cross.  As  we  entered  the  circular  colonnade 
men  and  women  ahead  of  us,  ascending  the  Cathedral 
steps,  looked  like  children.  Twenty-eight  Popes 
reigned  during  the  building  of  St.  Peter's,  the  largest 
cathedral  in  the  world,  which  required  one  hundred 
and  seventy-six  years  for  its  completion.  The  impres- 
sion of  vastness  on  entering  the  Cathedral  is  succeeded 
by  wonderment  at  the  grandeur  and  gorgeousness 
within.  The  immense  pictures  above  the  seven  altars 
are  masterpieces  of  renowned  painters  copied  in  mo- 
saics, of  which  "The  Transfiguration,"  by  Raphael, 
is  one  of  the  most  notable.     The  grand  altar,  under 


60  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

the  towering  dome,  erected  by  Clement  VIII,  has  a 
canopy  of  bronze  gilt  made  by  Bernini,  and  supported 
by  spiral  columns  nearly  one  hundred  feet  high.  In 
front  of  the  altar  is  the  circular  opening  to  the  crypt, 
with  marble  steps  leading  down  to  the  tomb  of  St. 
Peter.  The  walls  of  this  crypt,  veneered  with  lapis- 
lazuli  and  other  precious  stones,  are  adorned  with 
pillars  of  alabaster,  ornaments  of  silver  set  with  jewels, 
and  lamps  of  burnished  gold.  In  the  niche  over  St. 
Peter's  tomb  a  gold  cabinet  of  exquisite  workmanship 
holds  the  vestments  which  are  worn  by  the  reigning 
Pope  during  jubilee  celebrations.  Opposite  this  niche 
is  a  heroic  statue  of  the  Pope  in  robes  and  miter,  cut 
from  one  piece  of  fine  and  glistening  white  marble. 

St.  Peter's  Cathedral  seems  many  in  one,  as  it  is 
divided  by  numerous  pillars  and  arches,  with  niches 
above  for  tombs  and  statuary.  It  is  said  that  an  army 
of  ten  thousand  men  may  stand  in  the  transept  and  not 
be  seen  by  one  entering  the  nave  of  the  Cathedral. 

Splendid  statues  of  many  Popes  rest  upon  their 
sarcophagi  in  the  niches  above  the  arches;  and  these, 
as  well  as  other  groups  of  marble  statuary,  are  master- 
pieces of  renowned  sculptors.  One  of  the  grandest 
monuments  is  that  to  Clement  XIII,  by  Canova.  It 
represents  the  Pope  at  prayer,  while  Death  stands  on 
one  side  holding  a  torch  reversed,  and  on  the  other 
Religion,  with  rapt  countenance,  leans  confidently 
upon  the  cross.  The  lions  and  angels  by  Canova  are 
justly  celebrated.  A  very  remarkable  group,  called 
"Old  Age  and  Youth,"  seemed  almost  too  realistic  to 
be  enjoyed  by  women;  yet  it  is  hard  to  even  imagine 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  61 

an  old  woman  with  pallid  checks  and  sunken  eyes 
always  gazing  In  the  mirror  held  in  her  hand  and  for- 
ever mourning  her  lost  beauty,  as  this  one  is  repre- 
sented. Nor  do  I  think  any  young  woman  entirely 
self-sufficient  and  complacent,  no  matter  how  extraor- 
dinary her  beauty.  The  lineaments  of  these  self- 
absorbed,  vain  women  were  chiseled  by  a  masterful 
hand,  which  might  have  portrayed  womanhood  In 
ecstasy  of  worship  or  sacrifice. 

The  notable  group  "La  Pieta,"  by  Michael  Angelo, 
represents  the  Virgin  holding  the  dead  Christ  in  her 
arms.  It  Illustrates  with  sympathetic  Imagination  and 
wonderful  genius  a  mother's  love  and  grief  in  the  hour 
of  bereavement.  Pope  Pius  VIII  is  represented  as 
kneeling  with  Christ  and  giving  his  benediction  to  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Paul,  and  the  folds  of  his  marble  robes 
appear  almost  as  soft  as  velvet. 

Judging  from  the  labels,  the  confessionals  of  St. 
Peter's  are  arranged  to  meet  the  needs  of  every  one 
who  has  a  language.  The  famous  and  much-sought 
statue  of  St.  Peter  represents  him  seated  in  a  chair  of 
state,  with  his  right  hand  lifted  in  benediction  upon 
his  faithful  followers.  We  saw  devout  women  kissing 
his  favorite  big  bronze  toe,  which  is  getting  thinner 
every  day;  and  one  woman  lifted  her  little  son  that 
he  might  thus  prove  his  devotion.  We  heard  a  part  of 
the  service  and  some  music,  and  saw  a  number  of  car- 
dinals in  goodly  array.  St.  Peter's  Cathedral  has  been 
called  Rome's  living  landmark  of  the  past,  and  truly 
It  is  a  grand  temple  for  the  worship  of  the   living  God. 

The  Vatican,  adjoining  St.  Peter's,  looked  to  me 


62  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

like  an  immense  pile  of  houses.  We  expect  to  go  there 
to-morrow  morning,  and  I  will  try  to  tell  you  some- 
thing about  its  treasures  of  art,  though  as  you  well 
know  I  am  neither  connoisseur  nor  critic.  It  may  be 
that  my  chaperon  and   I   shall  have  the  pleasure  of 

seeing  Pope  Pius  X.     Bishop  M gave  W a 

letter  introducing  us  to  Bishop  F of  the  American 

College  in  Rome,  and  we  shall  deliver  it  very  soon. 

This  evening  a  party  of  American  ladies  started 
from  this  hotel  on  a  stroll,  leaving  their  hats  behind, 

but  Rev.  Dr.   E kindly  sent  a  messenger  to  tell 

them  no  lady  goes  out  in  Rome  with  uncovered  head. 
Needless  to  say  they  made  hasty  return.  "All  the 
world  's  a  stage,"  and  their  reappearance  brought  forth 
our  applause. 

The  sunset  glow  of  our  first  day  in  Rome  lingered 
long,  and  then  the  curtain  of  night,  embroidered  with 
silver  and  gold,  shut  us  in  with  bright  memories  and 
hallowed  thought  of  loved  ones  at  home. 

ROME   OF   TO-DAY. 

The  Rome  of  to-day  is  a  prosperous  and  beautiful 
capital  city  of  handsome  hotels,  royal  palaces,  elegant 
villas,  magnificent  cathedrals,  and  fine  art  galleries. 
Flowers,  fountains,  and  statuary  add  charm  and  grace 
to  the  many  private  and  public  gardens  of  the  city. 
The  storied  ilex  and  graceful  pepper  trees  adorn  the 
parks,  and  quiet  nooks  and  broad  avenues  are  shaded 
by  tall  sycamores.  The  rejuvenation  of  Rome  began 
on  September  20,  1870,  when  King  Victor  Emmanuel, 
at  the  head  of  the  Italian  army,  proclaimed  a  united 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  63 

Italv.  With  the  overthrow  of  Papal  rule,  the  Court 
was  moved  from  Florence  to  Rome.  Improvements 
begun  then  have  been  continued,  and  halves  of  houses 
now  occupied  show  where  narrow  streets  were  widened 
and  crooked  ones  made  straight.  The  excavation  of 
ancient  Rome  has  been  pursued  scientifically  and  ener- 
getically, and  countless  statues,  bronzes,  columns,  gold 
and  silver  coins  have  been  unearthed  and  added  to  the 
treasures  of  the  museums  for  the  delight  of  the  anti- 
quarian. Religious  toleration  now  characterizes  Rome, 
and  the  Methodist,  Baptist,  and  Presbyterian  churches 
are  doing  educational  and  evangelistic  work  in  the  city. 

In  the  Parliament  Flouse  we  saw  fine  portraits  of 
the  late  King  Humbert  and  Queen  Margherita,  and 
of  King  Victor  Emmanuel  and  Queen  Eleanor,  the 
honored  regents  of  to-day.  This  was  our  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  glimpse  of  royalty  in  Italy,  as  the  Quirinal 
Palace  is  deserted  for  the  summer  season.  It  was  a 
surprise  to  hear  that  Queen  Eleanor  is  a  Protestant, 
and  scarcely  less  so  to  learn  that  General  Garibaldi's 
daughter  is  teaching  in  a  Protestant  school  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Vatican.  One  of  the  very  interesting 
objects  in  the  Parliament  House  was  a  picture  of  the 
Capitol  of  the  United  States  of  America,  and  needless 
to  say,  we  saluted  it  with  pleasure. 

The  market-places  in  Rome  are  interesting,  and  the 
Italians'  love  of  color  is  everywhere  evident.  One  old 
woman  wore  a  blue  skirt,  yellow  waist,  and  scarlet 
velvet  girdle ;  and  another  one  was  knitting  bright  pur- 
ple stockings.  Even  the  horses  hitched  to  wine-carts 
sport  brilliant  colors,  their  knee  pants,  or  aprons,  being 


64  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

trimmed  with  scarlet  bindings,  balls,  and  tassels,  and 
their  heads  bedecked  with  red  pompons.  A  little 
watch-dog  invariably  rides  behind  the  driver's  unique 
umbrella  to  guard  the  casks  of  wine.  The  artistic 
temperament  of  the  Italian  is  also  in  evidence  every- 
where and  in  the  smallest  concerns  of  life.  One  old 
crone  waved  a  twig  of  green  leaves  over  little  pyra- 
mids of  great  red  cherries,  and  an  old  man  had  his 
stock  of  lemons  arranged  on  leafy  baskets  under  pretty 
arches  of  cool  foliage. 

In  the  Ghetto,  or  former  Jewish  quarters,  men 
drew  heavily-loaded  carts  of  merchandise,  and  women 
and  children  filled  straw-covered  bottles  with  water 
from  the  hydrants,  and  they  all  looked  needy.  The 
water  of  Rome  is  now  considered  pure  and  healthful, 
and  even  the  Campagna,  over  which  it  used  to  be  said 
a  bird  could  not  fly  and  survive,  has  been  redeemed 
by  drainage  of  the  lowland.  One  very  attractive  open- 
air  cafe,  extending  a  block,  was  densely  shaded  by 
mimosa  trees  in  fluffy  and  sweet-scented  bloom.  The 
tables  were  crowded  with  men,  women,  and  children 
taking  light  refreshment,  and  their  voices  were  pleas- 
ing, but  the  joyous  smile  so  prevalent  in  Naples  was 
lacking.  The  shops  in  Rome  are  alluring  with  pic- 
tures, statuary,  brasses,  bronzes,  cameos,  mosaics,  and 
many  other  beautiful  and  useful  articles.  The  famous 
Roman  pearls  offered  here  are  more  lustrous  and  more 
durable  than  our  white  wax  beads,  but  there  was  no 
occasion  to  see  if  they  would  dissolve  in  vinegar  or 


wine. 


Nearly  every  lady  in  our  party  purchased  one  or 


/ 

H 

- 


- 

a 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  65 

more  of  the  famous  Roman  silk  blankets  and  Roman 
sashes  of  lovely  and  rare  colorings.  The  Old  Lady  se- 
lected for  her  husband  a  blanket  with  stripes  of  the 
rich  red,  blue  and  yellow  colors  of  the  Vatican  Guards. 

Signora  B bought  soap  in  a  drug  store,  and 

the  silver  coin  returned  in  change  was  declared  "false 
money"  by  the  picture  dealer  nearby.  He  said  the 
druggist  would  be  imprisoned  if  the  fraud  were  re- 
ported to  the  city  officials.  All  along  the  little  Bride- 
to-be  is  gathering  exquisite  articles  for  the  wedding 
trousseau,  and  from  here  several  of  us  will  express 
things  to  London,  where  our  trunks  await  us. 

These  Italians  know  good  American  money,  and 
they  are  learning  the  English  language,  though  they 
express  themselves  somewhat  picturesquely.  The  con- 
cierge at  our  hotel  said  our  cloaks  were  stored  away 
in  the  "magazine,"  and  that  the  bus  had  made  one 
"voyage"  to  the  station.  The  bright  little  boys  who 
elevate  the  "lift"  and  land  us  upstairs  in  the  hotel  are 
trying  to  teach  us  Italian,  but  we  progress  slowly  and 
not  surely. 

One  of  our  beautiful  drives  under  tall  sycamore 
trees  and  winding  through  gardens  with  flowers,  foun- 
tains, shrubbery,  and  sago  palms  carried  us  to  the  sum- 
mit of  Janiculum  Hill,  one  of  the  seven  historic  hills 
of  Rome  within  the  walls  of  the  ancient  city.  An  old 
church  stands  on  the  lofty  site  once  occupied  by  a 
temple  to  Janus,  the  wise  god  who  looked  backward 
and  forward  at  the  same  time.  From  this  eminence 
we  had  a  fine  view  of  the  city  and  the  surrounding 
country,  with  all  roads  leading  into  Rome.  In  the 
5 


66  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

distance  we  saw  residences  of  the  French  ambassador; 
of  Marconi,  the  inventor  of  wireless  telegraphy ;  and 
of  other  distinguished  men;  and  not  far  off,  a  bronze 
statue  of  General  Garibaldi,  with  groups  of  sculpture 
around  its  base — one  of  which  represented  America. 
The  American  eagle  has  no  fear  of  the  she-wolf  here 
or  elsewhere,  and  they  are  often  grouped  together.  In 
another  direction  a  heroic  marble  statue  of  Garibaldi 
graced  the  center  of  a  garden  encircled  with  marble 
busts  of  patriots  and  statesmen  honored  by  Italy. 

As  the  fortress-castle  San  Angelo  on  the  banks  of 
the  yellow  Tiber  is  reflected  in  the  still  waters,  a 
lovely  picture  delights  the  eye,  and  we  would  fain 
forget  the  old  scenes  of  horror  enacted  within  its  walls. 
It  was  originally  built  by  Hadrian  for  the  tomb  of 
emperors,  and  it  was  enriched  with  rare  treasures  of 
art.  The  ashes  of  Hadrian  and  Marcus  Aurelius  en- 
tombed here  were  scattered  to  the  winds,  and  the  splen- 
did structure  became  a  prison,  in  which  Beatrice 
Cenci,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  other  historic  per- 
sonages were  imprisoned  and  tortured.  Too  often  the 
grandeur  of  old  Rome  was  stained  with  blood,  and  we 
are  thankful  the  prosperous  Rome  of  to-day  is  tolerant 
and  even  friendly  towards  the  many  men  of  many 
minds  who  come  here. 

July  7,   1908. 

PILGRIMS  AND  PROTESTANTS  SEE  THE  POPE. 

We  Ve  seen  the  pope,  and  he  seemed  to  see  us. 
We  even  exchanged  glances  with  him,  and  his  gentle- 
ness impressed  us  more  than  his  greatness.     Yesterday 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  67 

afternoon  my  chaperon  and  I  called  at  the  American 

College  and,  not  finding  Bishop  F ,  left  our  letter 

of  introduction  for  him.  A  few  hours  later  he  tele- 
phoned us  to  come  to  the  college  this  morning,  pre- 
pared for  attendance  upon  an  audience  with  Pope 
Pius  X.  We  were  not  provided  with  the  prescribed 
costumes  of  black,  but  a  silk  waist  borrowed  from 
IVUss  K supplied  my  partial  need,  and  the  chap- 
eron looked  quite  stately  and  impressive  robed  in  a 
trailing  dinner  gown,  as  she  walked  into  the  breakfast- 
room.  Her  long  gloves  and  the  veil  folded  over  the 
transparent  yoke  toned  down  the  festive  attire,  and  we 
left  the  hotel  with  expectations  and  anticipations  as 
well  as  congratulations  from  several  of  the  friends, 
who  would  have  been  pleased  to  accompany  us  if  only 

my  letter  had  been  less  specific.     Bishop  F met 

us  cordially,  and  we  were  agreeably  surprised  to  learn 
that  he  once  lived  in  Arkansas.  It  was  not  necessary 
to  present  the  note  of  primary  French  phrases  Ave  had 
carried  in  the  event  of  a  colloquial  dead-lock.  I  was 
glad  of  that,  as  I  had  written  it.  Here  again  are 
cape  jasmines,  oleanders,  and  other  flowering  plants, 
which  brighten  the  courtyard  of  the  college,  and 
Bishop  F said  only  a  calacanthus  shrub,  with  red- 
brown  spicy  blossoms,  is  needed  to  complete  the  illusion 
of  the  other  Sunny  South,  his  native  land  and  ours 
across  the  sea.  We  were  requested  to  wait  a  little 
while    for    several    Pennsylvania    ladies    who    desired 

to    accompany    us    to    the    Vatican.      Bishop    K 

gave  us  a  letter  to  be  presented  at  the  Vatican,  and 
my  chaperon,   "Signora  B ,"   was   the   designated 


68  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

guardian  for  this  party  of  pilgrims  and  Protestants. 
She  became  more  impressive  with  this  honor,  but  de- 
clared it  was  the  lace  mantilla  on  her  head  which  made 
her  feel  like  a  scion  of  old  Italian  nobility. 

When  we  reached  the  Vatican  the  Pennsylvania 
pilgrims  asked  permission  to  supply  themselves  with 
rosaries  to  be  blessed  by  the  pope.  The  Alabama  aris- 
tocrat assented;  the  noble  signora  smiled  with  queenly 
grace;  a  special  dispensation  was  granted  by  her  with 
the  dignity  suggestive  of  papal  authority.  The  two 
young  pilgrims  murmured  thanks,  and  regardless  of  the 
blazing,  burning  sunshine  sped  swiftly  across  the  square 
to  a  shop  filled  with  things  ecclesiastical. 

As  we  waited  in  the  grateful  shade  of  the  grand 
colonnade  of  massive  marble  columns,  the  worldly- 
minded  among  us  tried  to  make  a  mental  sketch  of  the 
gorgeous  uniform  worn  by  the  Swiss  Guards  of  the 
Vatican.  Michael  Angelo  designed  this  uniform,  and 
he  must  have  done  so  in  an  hour  when  cold  marble  re- 
fused to  breathe  under  the  stroke  of  his  magical  chisel. 
Here  he  reached  Alpine  heights  in  color  and  wove 
the  brilliant  hues  of  sunset  into  cloth.  The  coat  and 
bloomers  of  rich  red  cloth  shine  through  the  slashed 
costume  of  dark-blue  over  them,  and  which  is  trimmed 
with  orange-yellow  bands. 

The  mental  sketch  was  barely  begun  when  the 
young  pilgrims  returned  almost  loaded  down  with  ro- 
saries, having  bought  the  old  shop-keeper's  entire  stock. 
They  regretted  there  were  not  more  to  buy,  and  none 

more  costly,   but   kindly  let   Signora   B and   me 

have  two  rosaries  each  for  souvenirs  of  the  day.    The 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  69 

pilgrims    must    have    been    shocked    to    discover    that 

Signora    B was    not    the    devout    Romanist    she 

looked,  and  merely  a  pretender  before  the  papal  throne 
of  Italy. 

The  great  bronze  doors  of  the  Vatican  palace 
opened  upon  a  grand  marble  stairway,  and  we  climbed 
marble  flights  and  walked  through  marble  halls  until 
acquaintance  ripened  into  friendship.  The  pilgrims 
from  the  North  and  the  Protestants  from  the  South 
forgot  the  "Mason  and  Dixon  line."  In  spirit  we  all 
went  back  to  America  and  peeped  into  the  brightest 
and  happiest  homes  on  earth.  We  congratulated  our- 
selves on  belonging  to  the  land  of  liberty,  progress,  and 
power.  They  did  not  count  us  heretics,  nor  did  we 
consider  them  idolaters.  We  were  sisters  in  Christ, 
and  our  hearts  throbbed  in  sympathy  with  God's  chil- 
dren throughout  the  universe. 

We  were  a  little  fatigued,  but  were  refreshed  by 
the  journey  along  the  marble  stairways,  from  which  we 
were  ushered  into  the  throne-room  of  the  papal  palace 
by  attendants  who  wore  a  rich  uniform  of  cardinal-red 
satin  with  gilt  trimmings  and  lace  ruffles. 

A  gold  crucifix  was  in  one  end  of  this  spacious 
room,  or  hall,  and  immense  and  exquisite  tapestry-pic- 
tures adorned  its  walls.  "With  the  exception  of  those 
who  represented  various  orders  of  Roman  Catholicism, 
every  one  in  the  goodly  company  wore  garments  of 
black.  There  were  men  and  women  of  various  na- 
tionalities and  from  every  walk  of  life,  and  solemn- 
looking  monks,  nuns  of  gentle  mien,  and  children  with 
the  joy  of  life  shining  in  their  faces.    The  group  that 


70  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

interested  me  most  were  young  Irish  women,  whose 
bright  faces  were  barely  concealed  by  the  hoods  to 
their  somber  brown  gowns  and  cloaks. 

From  the  throne-room  we  were  escorted  by  the 
papal  guard  into  other  beautiful  rooms,  and  soon  the 
appearance  of  the  papal  nuncio,  the  pope's  secretary, 
clad  in  cardinal  robes,  signified  the  approach  of  Pope 
Pius  X.  He  was  clad  in  soft  white  raiment,  and  his 
marvelously  sympathetic  voice  gave  us  understanding 
of  the  blessing  pronounced  in  unknown  tongue  as  the 
company  knelt  around  the  room.  We  Protestants  be- 
lieve no  living  man  infallible,  but  with  the  pilgrims 
we  were  comforted  by  the  blessing  of  a  priest  of  God. 
We  felt  it  a  privilege  to  look  into  the  face  of  the 
temporal  head  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  which 
has  preserved  Christianity  through  these  centuries. 

This  short  ceremony  ended,  and  then  one  of  the 
pilgrims  and  a  Protestant  crept  into  the  adjoining  room 
and  saw  the  presentation  of  fine  vestments  to  the  pope 
by  two  ladies  and  two  little  girls  who  carried  the 
precious  gift.  They  were  accompanied  by  a  large 
number  of  their  associates,  all  of  whom  wore  white 
muslins  with  broad  blue  bands  across  the  shoulder,  evi- 
dently the  uniform  of  some  school.  The  ladies  spoke 
fluently  in  Italian,  and  the  pope's  grateful  response 
sounded  eloquent.  The  weary  expression  left  his  face, 
and  his  benign  countenance  was  full  of  serenity  and 
dignity.  His  life  has  been  one  of  sacrifice  and  labor 
for  humanity,  and  he  was  greatly  beloved  in  Venice, 
his  former  parish,  whence  he  was  called  to  become 
first  in  the  heart  of  the  whole  Roman  Catholic  Church. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  71 

Pope  Pius  X  is  a  man  of  integrity,  and  is  esteemed 
by  men  of  all  nations. 

A  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  told  me 
this  incident,  and  I  can  well  believe  it:  A  devout 
Roman  Catholic,  grieved  because  her  sister  had  be- 
come a  Protestant,  sought  sympathy  and  advice  in  an 
interview  with  Pope  Pius  X.  He  listened  kindly,  and 
then  asked  her,  "Does  your  sister  love  Christ,  our 
Lord  ?"  The  woman  replied  in  the  affirmative. 
"Then,"  said  the  pope,  "you  need  have  no  fear;  for 
all  is  well  with  your  sister  if  she  loves  Christ." 

When  we  returned  to  the  Hotel  du  Quirinal  our 
friends  were  at  luncheon,  and  Signora  B trium- 
phantly entered  the  dining-room  wearing  her  lace  man- 
tilla, the  trailing  dinner-gown,  and  the  half  dozen  rosa- 
ries which  had  been  blessed  by  the  pope.  An  attache 
of  the  hotel  had  asked  her  to  carry  a  rosary  for  a  friend 
of  his,  that  it  might  come  under  the  all-inclusive  bless- 
ing of  the  pope,  saying  the  little  package  need  not  be 
opened.  With  womanly  desire  to  do  things  well,  she 
opened  it  to  slip  the  rosary  upon  her  wrist,  and  found 
the  package  contained  several  very  pretty  rosaries  in- 
stead of  one.  It  is  possible,  if  not  probable,  these 
rosaries  were  afterwards  sold  for  a  good  price  to  guests 
at  the  hotel. 

MONUMENTS,    MUSEUMS,   AND   MEMORIALS. 

Of  the  magnificent  monuments,  many  museums, 
and  millions  of  memorials  in  Rome  I  can  mention  only 
a  few  and  describe  none. 

In  the  miles  and  miles  of  paintings,  sculpture,  and 


72  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

statuary  in  the  museums,  everything  historical,  alle- 
gorical, and  mythological  is  represented,  though  the 
presentation  of  sacred  subjects  predominates  in  the 
picture  galleries.  Some  of  the  statues  appear  to  have 
been  made  before  the  fall  of  man  or  ever  a  rib  was 
taken  from  his  side.  More  than  once  I  've  thought 
of  the  little  girl  in  Arkansas  who  came  into  her  grand- 
mother's parlor  and,  holding  up  her  doll  with  not  a 
stitch  of  clothing  on,  said  to  the  company,  "My  poor 
doll  is  barefooted."  And  sometimes  I  've  been  re- 
minded of  the  little  boy  in  Virginia  who  escaped  from 
the  bath-tub  and  his  old  black  "mammy,"  and  overtook 
his  mother  as  she  welcomed  her  guests  for  the  day  in 
the  sunny  walk  hedged  with  roses. 

When  the  innocence  of  these  blessed  babies  is  lack- 
ing it  is  well  for  barefooted  dolls  and  fugitives  from 
the  bath  to  remain  in  museums,  even  though  they  be 
graceful  and  beautiful,  embodying  the  ideal  of  genius. 

Sometimes  the  devotion  of  the  child-mother  plead- 
ing for  her  doll  and  the  joy  of  the  mischievous  little 
boy  on  catching  his  mother  are  seen  in  the  statues  and 
the  cold  marble  is  glorified.  The  chisel  in  an  inspired 
hand  may  lead  mortal  man  to  heavenly  heights. 
There  's  an  angel  in  the  block  of  stone  for  the  divinely- 
inspired  sculptor,  and  so  it  is  a  benediction  to  stand  in 
the  presence  of  some  of  these  statues  so  full  of  spiritual 
strength  and  beauty. 

The  Vatican,  the  papal  palace,  is  said  to  contain 
eleven  thousand  rooms,  museums,  chapels,  and  galleries. 
It  is  the  treasure-house  of  art,  for  there  we  saw  with 
delight,    though    unsatisfying    haste,    masterpieces    in 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  73 

sculpture  and  painting  by  Phidias,  Praxiteles,  Canova, 
Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  other  world-famous 
artists.  "The  Transfiguration,"  by  Raphael,  is  called 
the  greatest  painting  in  the  world,  and  one  may  well 
believe  it,  for  its  matchless  beauty  tells  of  inspiration 
in  holy  thought.  The  "Last  Judgment,"  by  Michael 
Angelo,  on  the  altar-wall  of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  is  no 
less  renowned;  and  it  too  is  almost  overpowering  in 
its  sweep  of  imagination  and  boldness  of  execution. 
There  are  hundreds  of  figures  in  the  picture — angels 
ascending,  demons  descending,  the  dead  rising  to  be 
judged,  and  the  Virgin  is  looking  away  as  the  wicked 
ones  receive  their  condemnation.  The  guide  pointed 
out  a  demon  whose  face  is  said  to  be  the  likeness  of  a 
cardinal  hated  and  thus  reviled  by  Michael  Angelo. 
The  story  is  that  the  cardinal  appealed  to  the  pope  to 
have  this  likeness  blotted  out,  and  that  the  pope  said 
he  might  have  been  recalled  from  purgatory,  but  that 
Michael  Angelo  had  consigned  him  to  the  infernal  re- 
gions, from  which  there  is  no  escape. 

Again  Michael  Angelo's  marvelous  genius  is 
shown  in  the  frescoes  in  the  ceiling  of  Sistine  Chapel 
which  represent  scenes  from  Bible  history.  The  "Cre- 
ation of  the  World"  is  followed  by  "Creation  of 
Adam,"  "Creation  of  Eve,"  the  "Expulsion  from  Para- 
dise," "Sacrifice  of  Cain  and  Abel,"  and  the  "Deluge." 

As  the  titanic  Eve  springs  from  the  side  of  the 
slumbering  Adam,  she  appears  to  be  physically  equal  to 
any  man  that  lives;  and  that  she  forged  ahead  in  the 
acquirement  of  knowledge  is  rarely  questioned. 
Around  the  ceiling  are  the  figures  of  seven  prophets, 


74  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

and  five  sibyls  intently  reading  books  or  scrolls;  also 
scenes  representing  deliverances  that  came  to  the  chil- 
dren of  Israel:  Judith  with  the  head  of  Holofernes, 
David  slaying  Goliath,  and  other  historical  events. 
These  fine  frescoes  are  seen  to  best  advantage  by  con- 
noisseurs who  lie  on  the  floor  and  gaze  upwards 
through  opera-glasses.  My  respect  for  hardwood  floors 
and  the  accustomed  dignity  of  the  chaperon  reconciled 
us  to  the  second-best  view  from  a  comfortable  seat  in 
the  chapel. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  recall  the  fact  that  the  stern, 
upright  Michael  Angelo,  always  in  conflict  with  the 
world,  at  last  found  happiness  in  the  companionship 
of  the  pure  and  lovely  Vittoria  Colonna  of  noble  birth 
and  character.  The  guide  reminded  us  this  greatest 
genius  was  born  in  the  fifteenth  century — "the  golden 
century,  because  America  was  discovered  in  it,"  he 
added. 

Nearly  every  painter  of  renown  has  portrayed  the 
Madonna  and  Holy  Family,  and  many  of  these  paint- 
ings are  very  beautiful,  though  in  varying  degree. 
The  Madonnas  by  Raphael  are  surpassingly  beautiful, 
with  a  serenity  of  repose  and  countenance  beatific  that 
uplifts  the  beholder. 

The  Coronation  of  the  Virgin  is  a  favorite  and 
very  beautiful  conception  of  the  old  masters.  Flowers, 
usually  lilies,  spring  up  in  the  empty  tomb,  while  in 
the  clouds  the  Virgin  receives  the  crown  of  life  from 
her  Divine  Son  and  Redeemer. 

In  the  halls  of  sculpture  the  statue  of  Apollo  Bel- 
vedere stands  alone,  with  the  glow  of  exaltation  in  his 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  75 

face.  Canova's  Perseus  is  scarcely  less  beautiful,  but 
his  face  is  cold  and  his  body  is  rigid  as  he  views  the 
Gorgon  head  held  aloft  in  his  hand.  The  Boxers,  by 
Canova,  seem  to  breathe,  and  every  muscle  is  tense 
as  they  face  each  other.  One  is  terrible  in  brute  force, 
but  the  lithe  one  is  alert  and  may  parry  the  blow  of 
his  antagonist.  I  did  not  care  to  see  the  combat  begin. 
Nothing  can  be  more  terrible  than  the  Laocoon  group. 
The  agony  in  the  father's  face  is  indescribable  as  his 
body  is  distorted  in  the  death-struggle  against  the  ser- 
pents coiling  around  him  and  his  sons.  "Father  Nile, 
half  reclining  on  an  Egyptian  sphinx,  is  kept  awake  by 
more  than  a  dozen  healthy  youths  who  play  around  and 
climb  upon  his  colossal  frame  to  their  heart's  content, 
typifying  the  fertility  of  the  soil  overflowed  by  the 
River  Nile.  The  statue  of  Minerva  by  Phidias  is 
stately  and  graceful.  The  Muses  by  Praxiteles  are 
charming,  and  the  Venus  of  his  school  is  extraordina- 
rily graceful  and  beautiful. 

Portraits  and  statues  of  emperors,  generals,  schol- 
ars, prelates,  and  citizens  are  lifelike  and  interesting. 
The  statue  of  Seneca  is  fine  and  of  noble  mien.  In 
one  hand  he  holds  the  little  vessel  to  catch  the  trickling 
blood  when  he  died  the  honorable  death  of  a  Roman 
statesman.  I  saw  no  memorial  to  Seneca's  wife,  who 
tried  to  follow  him  into  the  mysterious  land  of  Death, 
and  whose  pallid  countenance  ever  after  proclaimed 
her  devotion  as  well  as  her  defeat  in  life.  A  bust  of 
Plotina,  the  wife  of  Trajan,  and  the  sarcophagus  of 
Eleanor,  the  mother  of  Constantine,  are  two  of  the 
many  memorials  to  women. 


76  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

Here  are  mosaics  from  the  villa  of  Cicero ;  a  basin 
of  finest  porphyry  from  the  golden  palace  of  Nero ;  ala- 
baster vases  and  a  fountain  for  perfumes  from  the 
palaces  of  the  Caesars.  The  mosaic  pictures  from  Ha- 
drian's villa  at  Tivoli  represent  domestic  scenes;  a 
goatherd  and  his  flock,  baskets  of  fish  and  fruit,  ducks, 
and  even  pigs,  are  reproduced  with  poetic  and  artistic 
touch. 

There  are  halls  of  exquisite  tapestries  designed  by 
Raphael,  and  things  of  priceless  value  on  every  side. 
Truly,  the  world  is  under  obligation  to  the  popes  who 
have  garnered  these  gems  of  art  for  the  embellishment 
of  the  Vatican  and  the  benefit  of  mankind  through 
centuries  to  come. 

In  Rome  tradition  and  history  are  taught,  and 
myths  are  perpetuated  by  memorials  in  marble  and 
bronze.  Here  are  memorials  to  great  good  men,  to 
eminent  bad  men,  and  to  mere  mythical  men.  On 
fountains  and  in  parks  heroic  statues  of  Castor  and 
Pollux  stand  in  readiness  to  mount  their  noble  white 
horses  and  lead  the  Romans  to  victory,  as  told  in  sto- 
ries of  old.  The  mythical  tales  of  Gannymede  and 
Leda  are  told  in  bas-relief  figures  on  the  great  bronze 
portals  of  St.  Peter's  Cathedral.  The  ancient  Campi- 
doglio  on  Capitoline  Hill  is  reached  by  an  imposing 
granite  or  marble  stairway,  guarded  at  the  bottom  by 
bronze  lions  and  at  the  top  by  the  heroic  Castor  and 
Pollux  in  marble.  A  golden  bronze  statue  of  Marcus 
Aurelius,  on  a  pedestal  designed  by  Michael  Angelo, 
occupies  a  place  of  honor  in  the  courtyard. 

The  old  Capitol  is  now  a  museum,  and  contains 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  77 

some  of  the  most  celebrated  statues  in  the  world.  In 
the  halls  of  emperors,  senators,  philosophers,  and  poets 
we  looked  upon  the  features  of  Tiberius,  Caesar  Augus- 
tus, Marcus  Brutus,  Homer,  Seneca,  and  many  other 
illustrious  men.  The  Capitoline  Venus  is  chaste  and 
beautiful.  The  statue  of  Diana  of  the  Ephesians  is 
ugly  and  ungraceful.  The  Capitoline  Faun,  by  Praxi- 
teles, wonderfully  portrays  a  human  being  brutalized 
by  passion. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  monuments  in  Rome 
is  the  magnificent  bronze  column  erected  by  the 
Roman  senate  in  honor  of  the  Emperor  Trajan.  It 
stands  in  the  ancient  Forum  of  Trajan,  and  his  vic- 
tories are  artistically  represented  in  bas-relief  around 
the  column.  Trajan's  statue  on  the  pinnacle  has  been 
supplanted  by  one  of  St.  Peter  holding  immense  keys 
in  his  hand. 

The  world-famous  Moses,  by  Michael  Angelo, 
seated  under  the  sarcophagus  of  Pope  Julius  III,  forms 
a  part  of  this  magnificent  tomb,  begun  in  1505  and 
finished  forty  years  later.  The  colossal  Moses  has 
horns,  and  the  great  law-giver  is  terrible  to  look  upon. 
He  would  sit  grandly  on  an  Egyptian  obelisk  or 
mighty  monolith  in  an  open  square,  and  then  be  a 
terror  to  the  just  as  well  as  the  unjust. 

In  the  galleries  of  the  Barberini  Palace,  art  em- 
phasizes dark  pages  and  illuminates  bright  ones  in  his- 
tory. Of  the  celebrated  paintings  there  the  most  no- 
table are  "The  Slave,"  by  Titian  ;  the  strangely  beauti- 
ful and  sorrowful  "Beatrice  Cenci,"  accredited  to 
Guido  Reni ;  and  "The  Holy  Family,"  by  Andrea  del 
Sarto. 


78  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

CHURCHES,   CRYPTS,   AND  CEMETERIES. 

Many  of  the  churches  of  Rome  have  been  damaged 
or  destroyed  by  fire,  and  afterwards  rebuilt,  new  treas- 
ures being  added  to  their  old  ones.  One  of  these  is 
the  magnificent  St.  Paul's  Basilica,  first  erected  by 
Constantine  the  Great,  where  Paul  the  Apostle  was 
buried.  That  St.  Paul's  and  many  another  early 
Christian  "Church  was  called  a  Basilica,  in  compliment 
to  ancient  Rome,  may  not  have  been  "Sop  to  Cerberus." 

When  the  original  St.  Paul's  Basilica  was  destroyed 
by  fire  in  1823,  only  two  of  its  chapels  and  forty  mo- 
saic portraits  of  the  popes  were  saved.  In  1825  Pope 
Leo  XIII  ordered  its  rebuilding,  and  it  was  finished 
thirty  years  later. 

St.  Paul's  is  less  gorgeous  than  St.  Peter's  Cathe- 
dral, but  it  is  imperial  in  its  grandeur,  with  magnifi- 
cent columns  of  richest  marbles,  and  its  lofty  ceilings 
overlaid  with  massive  gildings.  The  antique  papal 
altar  is  studded  with  precious  stones,  and  its  canopy 
rests  upon  four  columns  of  porphyry.  Paintings  by 
renowned  artists  represent  scenes  in  St.  Paul's  life, 
and  the  frieze  under  the  cornice  is  formed  of  medallion 
portraits  of  the  popes  in  mosaics.  The  guide  called 
our  attention  to  the  eyes  of  the  portrait  of  St.  Linus, 
and  we  saw  them  sparkle  for  ourselves,  diamonds  hav- 
ing been  placed  there  by  a  rich  and  titled  woman  of 
Italy. 

The  Pantheon  of  Agrippa,  erected  27  B.  C,  is  a 
masterpiece  of  classic  Greek  architecture.  The  sixteen 
columns  of  the  Corinthian  portico  are  granite  mono- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  79 

liths,  with  capitals  and  bases  of  white  marble.  This 
imposing  structure  is  lighted  by  a  circular  opening  in 
the  central  cupola.  This  heathen  temple  was  finally 
converted  into  a  Christian  church,  and  Pope  Boniface 
dedicated  it  to  the  memory  of  Christian  martyrs  whose 
bones  were  brought  from  the  Catacombs  for  interment 
here.  Raphael,  King  Victor  Emmanuel,  and  other  il- 
lustrious men  are  buried  here,  and  henceforth  it  is  to 
be  the  final  resting  place  for  all  kings  of  Italy.  The 
tomb  of  King  Humbert,  "the  wise  and  good  king" 
who  was  murdered  July  29,  1900,  is  not  finished;  it 
is  covered  with  curtains  of  black,  upon  which  are  fast- 
ened wreaths  of  palm  leaves  tied  with  royal  purple 
ribbons. 

Tradition  is  recited  with  the  assurance  of  truth 
here,  and  we  do  not  question  anything,  audibly  at  any 
rate.  In  the  cloisters  of  one  church  a  marble  pillar 
is  said  to  have  come  from  Solomon's  temple,  and  we 
stood  by  a  fragment  of  stone  coping  said  to  have  been 
a  part  of  the  well  from  which  the  woman  of  Samaria 
drew  water  as  she  talked  to  Jesus  Christ. 

In  St.  John's  the  Lateran,  called  the  Mother  of 
Christianity,  we  saw  the  Scala  Santa,  the  holy  stairway 
of  twenty-eight  steps  said  to  have  been  brought  from 
the  house  of  Pilate  in  Jerusalem,  326  A.  D.,  and  to 
have  been  ascended  by  our  Lord.  No  one  is  allowed 
to  walk  on  these  steps;  we  saw  a  devout  woman  pain- 
fully ascending  them  on  her  knees,  that  she  might  be 
granted  indulgences  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
It  was  while  ascending  these  very  steps  Martin  Luther 
realized  that  justification  through  faith  in  Christ,  and 


80  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

not  by  works,  is  the  way  of  salvation  for  men.  He 
arose,  and  the  Reformation  was  begun  that  day.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  stairway  is  a  circular  piece  of  dark 
marble  cracked  in  several  places.  We  are  told  that 
Christ  stood  upon  this  marble  when  His  death-sentence 
was  pronounced,  and  that  the  cracks  were  made  by 
the  earthquake  at  His  crucifixion. 

There  are  said  to  be  four  hundred  churches  in 
Rome,  and  every  church  seems  to  have  a  crypt.  In 
many  instances  a  small  section  of  the  crypt  is  devoted 
to  some  tomb  or  relic  of  unusual  importance,  wThich 
may  be  seen  from  the  floor  of  the  church.  In  one  crypt 
we  saw  the  baptistry  of  Constantine  the  Great;  St. 
Peter's  chains  in  another,  and  relics  of  many  saints  in 
others. 

One  could  hardly  imagine  a  more  gruesome  place 
than  the  crypt  of  the  Capuchin  church.  The  walls  are 
veneered  with  the  ghastly  bones  and  grinning  skulls  of 
departed  Capuchin  monks,  and  there  are  center-tables 
and  hanging-baskets  made  of  the  bones  of  dead  men's 
fingers  and  toes.  The  old  monk  in  charge  was  fasten- 
ing more  bones  together,  perhaps  to  make  rustic  seats 
and  comfortless  couches  for  himself  and  his  co-workers, 
who  seem  to  think  "this  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show  for 
man's  delusion  given,"  and  that  life  must  ever  be  over- 
shadowed with  Death's  grim  visage. 

We  went  down  into  the  catacombs  guided  by  a 
Franciscan  monk,  and  our  dull  wax-tapers  seemed 
mainly  to  reveal  the  darkness  and  blackness  as  we  de- 
scended three  flights  of  crooked  and  slippery  steps  cut 
into  the  soft  stone  and  worn  smooth  by  the  footsteps 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  81 

of  centuries.  We  were  surrounded  by  tiers  of  narrow 
niches  cut  in  the  stone  walls  and  once  filled  with  the 
corpses  of  men  and  women.  A  few  inscriptions  are 
still  decipherable,  and  over  some  of  the  niches  is  the 
chiseled  fish,  the  symbol  of  Christianity.  It  is  true 
that,  a  few  years  ago,  an  American  woman  thrust  her 
hand  into  a  niche  for  a  souvenir  and  picked  up  a  bone 
said  to  have  been  the  joint  of  the  great  toe  of  some 
departed  saint,  but  we  were  content  to  merely  look 
around.  In  fact  I  should  gladly  have  returned  to  the 
light  of  day  after  the  first  casual  glance  into  these  dis- 
carded tombs. 

We  went  into  several  of  the  dark,  dismal  chapels 
where  the  persecuted  Christians  met  to  worship  God, 
and  the  earliest  examples  of  Christian  art  are  found  in 
the  frescoes  of  the  St.  Calixtus  Catacombs.  It  is  said 
Rome  is  encircled  by  catacombs,  the  highest  being 
twenty-two  feet  and  the  lowest  fifty  feet  beneath  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  but  we  had  no  desire  to  verify 
the  statement. 

We  returned  to  the  city  by  the  old  Appian  Way, 
which  has  been  called  a  street  of  tombs;  among  the 
costly  ones  to  be  seen  are  the  round  one  of  Cecilia  Me- 
tella  and  the  pyramidal  tomb  of  Cais  Cestus. 

We  visited  the  Protestant  cemetery,  a  beautiful 
resting-place  under  somber  pines,  and  in  whose  branches 
the  ravens  found  protection  from  the  heat  of  summer- 
sun.  We  lingered  a  few  moments  by  the  graves  of  the 
immortal  poets  Keats  and  Shelley,  and  recalled  some 
of  their  inspired  songs  which  have  lifted  men  into  di- 
viner life.  In  this  lonesome  but  lovely  cemetery  Miss 
6 


82  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

K had  the  sorrow  to  find  a  newly-erected  monu- 
ment bearing  the  familiar  name  of  her  father's  kins- 
woman whom  she  expected  to  meet  during  her  sojourn 
in  Rome. 

Olive  trees  are  said  to  live  for  centuries,  and  we 
wondered  if  St.  Paul  might  have  seen  some  of  these 
ancient  gnarled  and  twisted  gray  sentinels  now  stand- 
ing along  the  Appian  Way.  A  curious  characteristic 
of  the  olive  tree  is  that  in  very  old  age  its  large  limbs 
separate  from  the  trunk  down  to  the  roots,  and  actually 
move  apart,  thus  forming  a  small  grove  of  its  own. 

PALACES   AND   PRISONS   OF   ANCIENT   ROME. 

The  days  pass  swiftly  in  Rome.  The  past  crowds 
upon  the  present.  The  harvest  of  a  cycle  of  centuries 
is  spread  before  us.  Superhuman  effort  and  life  with- 
out limitations  alone  could  compass  this  wide  and 
wondrous  field  of  treasure.  We  can  only  hope  to 
glean  a  grain  of  wheat   here  and   there.     Old   Mr. 

B was  wiser   than   we   knew   when   he   said   he 

"must  have  passed  through  Rome  in  the  night,"  and 
I  will  never  again  laugh  at  his  subterfuge.  Neither 
will  I  attempt  to  describe  the  Eternal  City,  for  I  am 
less  wise  than  I  knew. 

Fortunately  poets,  historians,  and  Christians  have 
given  us  the  story  of  old  Rome,  the  eloquence  heard 
in  its  Forums,  the  mirth  and  cruelty  of  its  Colosseum, 
and  the  glory,  as  well  as  the  shame,  of  its  catacombs. 
Now  we  see  the  palaces  of  the  Caesars  in  ruins,  the 
grand  columns  of  the  Forum  broken,  the  temples  and 
triumphal  arches  crumbling  away,  and  the  Colosseum 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  83 

a  ghost  of  its  former  grandeur.  Again  and  again  we 
are  reminded  "the  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 
grave." 

Excavations  are  still  being  made  in  old  Rome,  and 
there  is  no  end  to  the  discovery  of  interesting  and  in- 
valuable relics.  A  tomb  partly  unearthed  near  the 
Forum  recently  is  supposed  to  be  that  of  Romulus,  and 
the  scholars  of  the  world  are  trying  to  decipher  its 
curious  inscription.  We  went  under  the  excavations 
to  see  it,  but  the  light  of  the  candle  was  very,  very 
dim,  and  the  riddle  was  not  solved  that  day.  Rome 
loves  the  memory  of  Romulus,  her  founder  and  first 
king,  and  she  would  joyously  emblazon  his  tomb  with 
symbols  of  pomp  and  power.  The  traditions  of  his 
early  life  are  cherished,  and  may  be  learned  from  sculp- 
tures on  gateways,  imprint  on  imperial  documents, 
pictures  on  hotel-menus,  and  elsewhere.  The  provi- 
dential she-wolf  stands  patiently,  while  Romulus  and 
Remus  sit  under  her  and  greedily  suckle  warm  milk 
from  the  maternal  fountain.  The  potent  letters  of  an- 
cient time  when  Rome  ruled  the  world,  "S.  P.  Q.  R.' 
(Senatus  Populusque  Rornanus),  inscribed  on  the  ped- 
estal which  supports  this  happy  group,  are  almost  as 
much  in  evidence  in  Rome  as  was  the  British  Lion 
on  our  good  ship  Slavonia. 

Our  walk  through  the  ruins  of  the  Roman  Forum 
and  adjoining  historic  structures  was  very  interesting, 

under  the  guidance  of  Rev.  Dr.  E ,  of  Baltimore, 

a  former  missionary  to  Rome  from  the  Southern  Bap- 
tist Church.  He  pointed  out  the  Temple  of  Concord, 
erected  366  B.  C,  and  the  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus, 


84  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

A.  D.  203.  He  accompanied  us  through  the  garden 
of  the  Temple  of  Vesta,  adorned  with  statues  of  the 
seven  Vestal  virgins,  with  a  jasmine  vine  scattering 
starlike  blossoms  at  their  feet.  Beautiful  ferns  flour- 
ished all  among  the  ruins,  and,  as  always  in  Italy,  Na- 
ture smiled  and  added  a  "tender  grace  to  the  day  that 
is  dead."  We  walked  under  the  triumphal  arch  of 
Titus,  which  commemorates  his  overthrow  of  Jerusa- 
lem. This  arch,  built  of  white  marble  from  Pentelicus, 
Greece,  is  ornamented  with  bas-reliefs  representing  the 
treasures  said  to  have  been  brought  from  Jerusalem 
by  the  captjve  Jews,  one  of  them  being  the  golden  can- 
dlestick from  Solomon's  Temple. 

Not  far  off  stands  the  vast  and  majestic  ruin  of  the 
Colosseum,  begun  by  Vespasian  and  finished  A.  D.  80, 
in  the  reign  of  Titus,  by  the  captive  Jews.  It  was  not 
wrecked  by  fire  and  storms,  but  by  men  of  the  four- 
teenth and  fifteenth  centuries,  who  dismantled  it  to 
build  marble  palaces  in  the  center  of  Rome.  This 
vast  amphitheater  once  seated  85,000  spectators,  and 
10,000  gladiators  were  kept  to  amuse  them.  Now,  as 
the  sunlight  streams  through  hundreds  of  arched  win- 
dows and  doorways,  the  skeleton  of  the  Colosseum 
seems  to  look  with  eyes  innumerable  upon  its  own  deso- 
lation. The  vast  ruin  is  more  magnificent  and  myste- 
rious in  the  moonlight,  when  fantastic  shadows  con- 
gregate around  it  and  the  sigh  of  the  soft  breeze  be- 
comes a  mournful  requiem  for  its  vanished  glories.  On 
a  stormy  night  howling  demons  seem  to  invade  the 
solitary  ruins  of  Colosseum,  and  shivering  sightseers 
hasten  from  the  place  of  devastation  with  thoughts  of 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  85 

the    diabolical    scenes    and    woeful    tragedies    enacted 
within  its  once  glided  walls. 

Nero's  golden  palace  was  not  far  from  the  Colos- 
seum, but  all  traces  of  its  porticos  and  columns,  ex- 
tending a  mile,  of  Nero's  statue  120  feet  high,  and  of 
the  golden  stalls  for  his  chariot  horses,  have  long  since 
disappeared.  We  are  told  the  palace  was  overlaid  with 
gold,  and  everywhere  adorned  with  precious  stones  and 
mother-of-pearl,  and  that  there  were  contrivances  in 
the  roof  of  the  banquet  hall  to  scatter  flowers  and 
sprinkle  sweet-scented  oils  upon  Nero  and  his  fellow- 
revelers.  It  is  said  his  principal  banquet  rrall  was  cir- 
cular and  was  kept  in  perpetual  motion  to  represent  the 
celestial  sphere.  In  that  case  devils  turned,  and  after- 
wards trembled. 

The  Arch  of  Constantine,  erected  A.  D.  311,  is 
really  three  arches;  it  is  a  noble  monument  to  the 
victory  of  the  first  Christian  monarch.  We  rested 
awhile  in  its  shade,  and  Cupid  followed  us  there.  The 
rosy-cheeked,  bright-eyed  American  girl  smiled  as  the 
Old  Gentleman's  son  talked  to  her  in  accents  low. 

The  ruins  of  Rome  are  not  depressing,  for  the  woe- 
fulness  of  calamity  and  the  horror  of  catastrophe 
which  hang  over  Pompeii  are  happily  not  here.  True, 
triumphal  arches,  stately  temples,  and  grand  columns 
are  broken  and  crumbling  away,  but  they  record 
things  completed.  The  life  of  the  mighty  civilization 
of  old  Rome  has  throbbed  through  all  these  centuries. 
The  plans  of  her  architects  and  bridge  builders  are 
used  to-day.  The  eloquence  of  her  orators  has  never 
been  stilled.     The  achievement  of  her  artists  has  in- 


86  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

spired  all  nations.  She  taught  the  peoples  of  earth  the 
strength  and  majesty  of  law.  Her  very  persecutions 
of  the  Christians  enabled  them  to  bring  the  world 
nearer  the  one  true  God. 

The  Mamertine  Prison,  built  by  the  fourth  king 
of  ancient  Rome,  in  which  St.  Paul  was  incarcerated, 
is  the  one  ancient  structure  adjoining  the  Forum  that 
is  not  in  absolute  ruin.  We  went  into  this  damp  and 
dismal  dungeon  and  saw  the  aperture  through  which 
condemned  men  were  lowered  to  be  strangled  or 
starved  to  death,  as  was  the  fate  of  Jugurtha.  It  was 
in  this  prison  that  Paul  suffered  when  he  wrote  Tim- 
othy to  bring  his  winter  cloak,  but  he  was  triumphant 
in  spirit.  He  rejoiced  in  the  expectation  of  the  "crown 
of  righteousness,  which  the  Lord,  the  Righteous  Judge, 
shall  give  me  at  that  day;  and  not  to  me  only,  but 
unto  all  them  also  that  love  His  appearing." 

The  monster,  Nero,  fastened  his  crime  of  burning 
Rome  upon  the  Christians  and  beheaded  Paul,  their 
leader ;  but  never  again  did  he  have  a  moment  of  peace. 
Suetonius,  the  historian,  says  "Nero  thought  the  furies 
lashed  him  with  their  whips,  and  sometimes  seared 
his  skin  with  their  burning  torches."  He  was  denied 
the  easy  death,  as  his  golden  box  of  poisons  could  not 
be  found.  He  escaped  death  by  scourging  and  the 
Tarpeian  rock,  decreed  by  the  Roman  senate,  by 
plunging  a  dagger  into  his  throat.  In  his  golden  pal- 
ace the  infamous  Nero,  monarch  of  the  civilized  world, 
experienced  the  tortures  of  the  damned.  By  faith 
Paul,  the  prisoner,  looked  from  the  dungeon  into  his 
Heavenly  Father's  house  of  "many  mansions"  and  was 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 


87 


unafraid.  Conscience  comforted  him,  while  she  gave 
Nero  foresight  of  the  bottomless  pit.  History  testifies 
to  immortal  man's  hold  upon  unseen  eternal  things, 
and  in  Rome  we  are  made  to  realize  that  character  is 
the  crown  that  fadeth  not  away. 

We  are  to  leave  this  afternoon  for  Florence,  the 
world-renowned  city  of  art,  carrying  with  us  inefface- 
able impressions  of  the  ancient,  imperial  Rome,  the 
magical  city  of  to-day. 


'**. 


*°ndmw^ 


FLORENCE 

Palaces  of  Arts  —  Charming  Drives  —  Cathe- 
drals and  Other  Hallowed  Places. 

July   13,   1908. 

FROM   ROME  TO   FLORENCE. 

The  journey  from  Rome  to  Florence  was  through 
a  beautiful  country  of  cultivated  fields,  terraced  hills, 
fruitful  valleys,  and  picturesque  mountains. 

Italy's  festival  of  the  golden  grain  was  being  cele- 
brated, and  the  tiny  stone  huts  dotting  the  fields  were 
deserted.  The  gayly-clad  peasants  united  in  the  la- 
bors and  festivities  of  the  harvest-time.  Little  children 
played  within  sight,  and  older  ones  gleaned  after  the 
reapers.  Women  helped  the  men,  and  the  unthreshed 
sheaves  were  pressed  down  and  hanging  over  the  sides 
of  the  carts  drawn  by  white  oxen.  Every  heart  was 
glad  in  the  fruition  of  labor  and  in  the  fulfillment  of 
the  seasons.  Bread  for  months  to  come  was  at  hand. 
Now  and  then  flaming-red  poppies  illuminated  the 
roadside,  reminding  us  that  man  does  not  live  by  bread 
alone.  Beyond  the  fields  lombardy  poplars,  olive 
groves,  and  vineyards  led  the  way  to  handsome  villas 
on  the  hilltops.  Still  farther  off  the  Appenine  Moun- 
tains challenged  the  admiration  of  every  traveler,  and 
blue  and  sunny  skies  lovingly  encompassed  nature's 
fair  panorama. 

88 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  89 

However,  it  was  not  long  before  the  delectable 
vision  was  interrupted  and  the  panorama  broken  into 
fragments  by  the  tunnels  through  the  Appenines ;  but 
the  world  was  more  enchanting  every  time  we  came 
into  daylight. 

We  enjoyed  the  sociability  of  the  railway  journey, 
and  the  freedom  from  hurry  was  restful.  On  entering 
stations  the  tortoise-like  train  slowed  up  a  little  more, 
and  a  guard  ran  along  on  the  platform  to  unlock  the 
compartments  for  imprisoned  travelers  desiring  release. 
Almost  immediately  the  toy  whistle  was  blown  by 
somebody,  and  we  crept  on.  We  had  time  to  study 
French,    and    our    lawyer's    progress    was    noticeable. 

Hereafter  Mr.   M ,  standing  six   feet  high,  will 

be  "La  Conducteur,"  though  not  the  least  feminine  in 
fact.  We  were  confined  in  two  compartments,  but 
were  allowed  to  exchange  visits  and  to  converse  to- 
gether in  English.  Good  fortune  followed  us,  and  in 
time  we  reached  Florence,  where  carriages  with  white 
canopies  trimmed  with  red,  officials  in  bright  uniform, 
and  citizens  in  goodly  array  suggested  a  gala  day. 

The  spell  of  enchantment  woven  by  memory  and 
tinted  by  imagination  was  strong  upon  us.  As  we 
drove  through  the  streets  half-remembered  facts 
crowded  upon  us.  We  read  pages  of  history  in  their 
original  setting.  Fragments  of  Roman  walls  tell  of 
earliest  days  in  Florence.  Castles  with  feudal  towers 
record  luxury  and  rapine.  Traces  of  the  hatred  be- 
tween Guelphs  and  Ghibellines  are  not  yet  obliterated. 
But  Italy's  love  of  the  beautiful  outshines  everything 
else.       Stone    walls    are    embellished    and    gateways 


90  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

adorned  with  artistic  sculptures.  Beautiful  tablets  re- 
cord historical  events.  Lovely  pictures  of  the  Ma- 
donna and  Child  grace  the  outer  walls  of  schools  and 
sanctuaries.  Art  is  the  poetry  of  Italian  life  and  en- 
ters largely  into  its  religion  as  well. 

Our  pension  was  once  the  habitation  of  nobility. 
A  wall  surrounds  the  garden,  and  a  sculptured  lion 
watches  over  it.  The  establishment  is  built  around 
several  courts,  in  which  pink  oleanders,  white  jas- 
mines, and  lesser  plants  bloom  and  perfume  the  at- 
mosphere. Our  tall,  fair-haired,  and  handsome  land- 
ladies are  Norwegians,  though  not  Vikings  bold.  They 
are  powerful  in  frame,  gracious  in  manner,  and  they 
cordially  welcome  Americans.  One  of  them  carries 
in  her  arms  a  midget  of  a  dog,  called  Princess,  though 
christened  with  half  a  dozen  distinguished  names,  and 
she  talks  to  it  in  French.  The  mistress  of  Princess 
says  she  talks  to  herself  sometimes  because  she  likes 
to  converse  with  an  honest  woman. 

This  rambling  old  house  seems  to  have  been  built 
in  all  the  ages,  and  only  the  guests  represent  the  pres- 
ent time.  To  reach  my  room  from  the  front  hall  I 
pass  through  dining-rooms,  down  steps,  and  through 
a  glass-covered  hall  between  the  courtyards,  up  a  long 
flight  of  stairs,  and  then  down  a  short  one,  and  into 
the  hall  leading  to  my  lady's  chamber.  It  is  a  large, 
handsome  room,  decorated  with  mirrors,  while  the 
ceiling  is  heavily  ornamented  with  cherubs  and  cupids. 
The  panels  in  the  walls  suggest  secret  doors,  and  the 
curtained  closet  seems  to  conceal  a  private  stairway. 
The  tall  cream-colored  object  decorated  with  shining 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  91 

medallions  is  a  stove,  and  not  a  monument  to  a  de- 
parted saint  or  statesman. 

The  large  windows  and  green  shutters  are  fitted 
with  heavy  rods  and  locks,  which  creak  and  clang  when 
they  are  opened  or  shut.  Inside,  solid  wooden  shut- 
ters are  a  further  protection  against  intruders  from 
the  courtyard  below.  They  might  also  insure  the 
safety  of  a  hapless  prisoner,  and  love  would  hardly 
laugh  at  the  locksmith  here.  The  love  of  color  is 
shown  everywhere;  but  was  it  from  a  sense  of  fitness 
that  the  writing-table  of  my  room  was  supplied  with 
brilliant  green  ink? 

FLORENCE,    THE    MOTHER    OF    ILLUSTRIOUS    MEN. 

Like  her  marvelous  cathedral  with  the  double 
dome,  Florence  wears  a  double  crown.  We  are  told 
that  her  people  are  superior  in  amiability,  intelligence, 
and  freedom  from  bigotry,  combining  the  best  charac- 
teristics of  the  Roman  and  Tuscan  peoples.  Through 
the  centuries,  beginning  B.  C,  she  has  heard  alter- 
nately the  clash  of  war  and  the  songs  of  peace. 

Florence,  of  royal  mien,  was  the  capital  of  Italy 
from  1864  to  1870,  when  King  Victor  Emmanuel 
moved  the  court  to  Rome.  She  is  still  queen  of  the 
world  of  art,  and  the  mother  of  illustrious  sons  who 
hastened  the  Renaissance  and  laid  sure  foundation  for 
United  Italy;  versatile  men  in  art  and  science;  virile 
men  in  thought  and  deed.  These,  her  priceless  jewels, 
have  added  luster  to  the  imperishable  treasure  of  the 
world. 

Florence  honors  and  cherishes  the  memory  of  her 


92  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

sons  of  unrivaled  genius  in  poetry,  philosophy,  painting, 
i*nd  sculpture.  Two  immense  halls  in  the  Uffizzi  Palace 
are  sacred  to  the  statues  of  her  illustrious  children,  in- 
cluding Americo  Vespucci,  Dante,  Petrach,  Boccaccio, 
Galileo,  Giotto,  Brunelleschi,  Savonarola,  Fra  Bar- 
tolommeo,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Cellini,  Carlo  Dolci, 
Ghiberti,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  Michael  Angelo. 
This  palace  was  built  by  the  Medici  family,  who  were 
patrons  of  art  as  well  as  rulers  of  men.  This  powerful 
family  gained  eight  grand-dukeships  and  furnished 
four  popes  for  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  thus  feast- 
ing twice  as  often  as  they  fasted.  Yet  between  po- 
litical conspiracies  and  pontifical  conquests,  and  despite 
feasting  and  fastings,  the  Medici  collected  the  most 
celebrated  pictures  and  statuary  in  the  world,  includ- 
ing masterpieces  of  Raphael,  Titian,  Veronese,  Cor- 
reggio,  Guido,  Michael  Angelo,  and  other  world- 
famous  artists. 

The  Uffizzi  and  Pitti  Galleries,  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  River  Arno,  are  connected  by  a  covered  bridge 
which  is  hung  with  the  drawings  of  famous  artists,  and 
portraits  in  black  and  white  of  celebrities  of  Europe. 
An  occasional  window  in  this  narrow,  long  gallery 
gave  us  a  glimpse  of  the  flowing  waters  below,  and 
somehow  we  were  reminded  of  the  devices  of  olden 
time  for  the  quiet  removal  of  men  and  women  feared 
by  those  in  high  places.  Happily  this  connecting-link 
between  the  art  galleries  only  shortens  the  weary  way 
of  sight-seeing,  and  it  is  all  the  more  interesting  because 
it  is  built  above  the  little  shops  on  the  old  Ponte 
Vecchio. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  93 

The  royal  apartments  of  Pitti  Palace  are  reserved 
for  the  king  of  Italy  when  he  honors  Florence  with  a 
visit.  Its  museums  are  open  alike  to  plebeian  and  pa- 
trician for  a  lira  each. 

Although  art  was  consecrated  to  religion  in  an- 
cient days,  portraits  of  living  men  were  often  intro- 
duced in  sacred  scenes.  The  Medici  magnates  are  rec- 
ognized in  Botticelli's  painting,  "Adoration  of  the 
Magi,"  and  their  families  are  formally  presented  to 
the  Virgin   for  her  blessing. 

Florence  has  been  pillaged  by  barbarians,  desolated 
by  pestilence,  despoiled  in  war,  and  torn  by  civil  strife; 
but  now  she  basks  in  the  sunlight  and  watches  the  shift- 
ing clouds.  She  dreams  of  past  glories,  revels  in  the 
peaceful  present,  and  goes  serenely  forth  to  meet  the 
shadowy  future.  She  has  more  than  200,000  inhab- 
itants, and  the  cost  of  living  here  is  moderate.  In  the 
spring-time  and  autumn  many  visitors  come  to  enjoy 
the  beauties  of  nature,  and  the  treasures  of  art  and 
literature  hold  them  indefinitely.  In  the  National  Li- 
brary there  are  480,000  volumes,  many  of  them  rare 
and  of  great  value.  The  volumes  of  greatest  worth 
are  those  from  her  own  men  of  letters,  an  illustrious 
company  of  world-renowned  painters,  poets,  prophets, 
patriots,  philosophers,  and  sculptors. 

Soon  after  the  immortal  poet  Dante  came  Petrarch, 
"who  substituted  the  art  of  poetry  for  the  prophetic 
inspiration ;  and  while  Petrarch  was  yet  singing,  Boc- 
caccio anticipated  in  his  multifarious  literature  the 
"Age  of  the  Renaissance." 

In  Florence  one  onlv  turns  from  literature  and  art 


94  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

to  enjoy  the  natural  beauties  of  the  city  and  surround- 
ing country.  The  never-ending  procession  of  flowers 
is  led  in  the  spring-time  by  more  than  twenty  varieties 
of  tulips,  and  it  may  be  the  old  Tuscan  "Firenze" — 
Florence  in  English — took  its  name  from  nature's 
beauteous  gift  to  the  Vale  d'Arno. 

THE    UFFIZZI   AND   PITTI    PALACES   OF   ART. 

These  art-museums  are  crowded  with  the  paint- 
ings and  sculptures  worthy  of  the  world's  greatest  mas- 
ters, and  even  the  hurried  tourist  is  bound  by  the  spell 
of  enchantment  within  their  halls.  To  me  a  few  of 
the  most  exquisite  paintings  in  these  renowrned  collec- 
tions are  "The  Madonna  of  the  Chair,"  by  Raphael, 
well  known  and  beloved  everywhere  because  so  often 
copied  by  painters  of  all  lands.  It  is  the  most  per- 
fectly-beautiful picture  I  Ve  ever  seen.  The  "Virgin 
and  Child"  is  yet  another  notable  work,  and  "St. 
John,"  by  Andrea  del  Sarto,  with  a  chalice  in  his  hand 
and  a  cross  as  his  staff,  appeals  to  the  highest  and 
noblest  emotions.  The  "Madonna  with  Sts.  John 
and  Francis,"  Andrea  del  Sarto's  masterpiece,  is  tran- 
scendent in  grace  and  loveliness.  "The  Virgin,"  with 
the  Child  in  arms,  standing  on  a  pedestal  supported  by 
angels,  is  said  to  have  the  features  of  the  painter's 
beautiful  wife.  On  one  side  St.  Francis  lifts  a  small 
cross,  and  on  the  other  St.  John  holds  an  open  book. 
This  holy  conception  is  divinely  executed  in  rare  and 
tender  colorings.  Besides  the  "Transfiguration"  there 
are  a  number  of  twofold  pictures,  "The  Coronation 
of  the  "Virgin"  being  one  of  the  tenderest  and  loveliest 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  95 

conceptions  of  the  old  masters.  Flowers,  usually  lilies, 
spring  up  in  the  empty  tomb,  while  in  the  clouds  above, 
the  Virgin  receives  the  crown  of  life  from  her  Son, 
the   Divine   Redeemer. 

Titian's  paintings  are  exquisite  in  form  and  per- 
fect in  coloring;  and  so  the  fact  that  they  are  not 
always  chaste  is  the  more  to  be  deplored.  His  famous 
Venus,  complacent  in  consciousness  of  perfect  physique, 
sadly  needs  at  least  one  of  the  robes  her  maid  lifts 
from  a  trunk  in  the  background  of  the  painting.  His 
"La  Flora,"  scantily  robed  and  holding  fair  flowers 
in  one  hand,  is  idyllic,  and  the  witchery  of  spring-time 
is  there. 

Corregio's  exquisite  little  picture,  "The  Holy  Vir- 
gin and  Child,"  surrounded  by  angels,  is  often  copied 
by  artists  from  foreign  lands,  and  the  "Head  of  Me- 
dusa," by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  is  terrifying. 

Here,  too,  is  a  remarkable  collection  of  portraits 
of  ancient  and  modern  masters  painted  by  themselves. 
A  man  seeing  himself  "in  a  looking-glass  straightway 
forgetteth,"  but  these  men  of  genius  must  have  had 
exceptional  memory.  Among  these  are  portraits  of 
Raphael,  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
Michael  Angelo,  Gulio  Romano,  the  founder  of  the 
Tuscan  and  Roman  school  of  painting;  Titian,  Ve- 
ronese, and  Tintoretto,  chief  masters  of  the  Lombard 
and  Venetian  schools;  Domenichino,  Guercino,  Guido, 
Albani,  and  others  of  the  Bolognese  school. 

Among  the  foreign  old  painters  are  Albert  Durer, 
Holbein,  Rubens,  Van  Dyck,  Rembrandt ;  and  in  the 
collection   of  modern  painters  we  noticed  Alma  Ta- 


96  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

dema,  Corot,  David,  Millais,  Watts,  Lebrun,  and 
many  others. 

Here  are  fine  Italian  tapestries,  and  the  draperies 
in  the  Uffizzi  galleries  show  the  Medici  coat-of-arms. 
The  halls  of  sculpture  are  seemingly  endless.  A  fine 
bust  of  Julius  Caesar,  known  to  be  antique,  is  of  price- 
less value,  and  the  two  busts  of  Nero  are  notable ;  that 
of  him  in  childhood  has  a  lovely  face,  while  cruelty 
and  perfidy  stamp  that  of  the  mature  man.  The  deli- 
cate features  of  Poppea,  Nero's  wife  and  the  most 
beautiful  woman  of  her  time,  are  finely  chiseled  in 
marble,  and  nobility  characterizes  the  features  of 
Agrippina,  the  honored  empress  and  the  mother  of 
Caligula.  The  head  of  an  old  man  in  black  stone 
was  once  supposed  to  be  an  effigy  of  Euripides.. 

The  Hall  of  Niobe  is  dedicated  to  the  antique 
statues  of  Niobe  and  her  children,  which  were  un- 
earthed in  1583  near  St.  Paul's  Gate  in  Rome.  This 
group  of  statues,  which,  it  is  supposed,  originally 
adorned  a  temple,  is  considered  worthy  of  Phidias  or 
Praxiteles.  Nothing  could  be  more  pathetic  than  the 
mother  who  prays  to  the  gods  as  she  tries  to  shield 
her  youngest  daughter  from  the  unseen  but  terrible 
fate  awaiting  her.  Some  of  the  sons  and  daughters 
sorrowfully  await  their  fate,  while  others  flee  in  ter- 
ror. This  group  is  far  more  beautiful  than  the  Lao- 
coon,  in  the  Vatican,  but  quite  as  expressive  of  pa- 
rental affection,  mental  anguish,  and  physical  helpless- 
ness. 

The  Hall  of  Niobe  also  contains  the  famous  Me- 
dician  Vase,  with  the  "Sacrifice  of   Iphigenia"  sculp- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  97 

tured  in  bas-relief  around  it.  This  vase  was  discovered 
in  Hadrian's  villa  at  Tivoli,  and  it  belongs  to  the 
best  epoch  of  Greek  art.  The  Tribune  contains  mas- 
terpieces of  ancient  Greek  and  Roman  sculptures.  In 
"The  Wrestlers,"  taut  muscles  and  distended  veins 
tell  of  supreme  physical  effort.  The  victorious  athlete 
presses  to  earth  his  antagonist  who  vows  vengeance 
as  he  struggles  in  vain  to  rise.  "The  Dancing  Faun," 
perfect  in  characteristic  feature  and  graceful  attitude, 
has  been  attributed  to  Praxiteles.  "The  Whetter," 
another  ancient  masterpiece  in  marble,  seems  to  listen 
for  further  instruction  as  he  bends  over  the  stone  and 
whets  his  hooked  knife  for  execution  of  cruel  com- 
mand. He  is  supposed  to  represent  the  Scythian  or- 
dered by  Apollo  to  flay  alive  Marsyas,  the  sweet  mu- 
sician, and  mythology  becomes  very  real. 

It  was  a  relief  to  turn  from  this  to  the  "Little 
Apollo,"  almost  as  charming  as  the  Apollo  Belvedere 
in  Rome,  and  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  Cleomenes, 
who  immortalized  himself  by  the  famous  Venus  de 
Medici  brought  to  Florence  in  1677  from  Hadrian's 
villa  in  Rome.  Ovid  wrote  in  extravagant  praise  of 
the  exquisite  form  and  grace  of  this  Venus,  and  every 
lover  of  the  beautiful  is  captivated  by  her. 

Cupids,  dryads,  naiads,  satyrs,  demons,  angels,  gods 
and  goddesses,  and  in  fact  denizens  imagined  to  exist 
in  the  air,  the  earth,  and  the  waters  beneath  the  earth 
are  represented  here.  The  Vestal  virgin  is  modest 
and  fair,  and  not  far  off  Bacchante  is  dancing,  her 
light  draperies  seeming  to  float  with  the  movement  of 
the  figure,     In  the  great  bronze  figures  of  Cain  and 

7 


98  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

Abel  the  former  has  the  bitterness  of  the  curse  on  his 
face,  while  Abel  is  lovely  in  death. 

Bronzes,  cameos,  gems,  vases,  cabinets,  and  tables 
of  alabaster,  Lapis  lazzuli,  malachite,  and  mosaics  are 
mementos  from  grand  palaces.  Then  there  are  vases 
of  semi-precious  stones  ornamented  with  gold,  pearls, 
and  diamonds.  Here  is  a  cup  made  of  a  single  garnet, 
and  one  immense  pearl  forms  the  tiny  watch-dog  lying 
on  the  top  of  a  little  crystal  casket. 

Near  the  Pitti  Palace  is  the  Museum  of  Physics, 
containing  rare  botanical  specimens  and  the  first  tele- 
scope of  Galileo.  When  he  heard  an  instrument  had 
been  invented  to  bring  objects  for  nearer  vision,  he 
determined  to  perfect  it  and  count  the  stars.  It  has 
been  said  his  telescopic  discoveries  and  observations 
were  "not  less  remarkable  for  the  sagacity  which  di- 
rected than  for  the  inspiration  which  prompted  them." 

Among  the  fine  sculptures  beneath  the  arches  of 
the  Loggia  are  the  "Rape  of  the  Sabines,"  by  John  of 
Bologna,  and  "Perseus  with  the  Head  of  Medusa," 
by  Benvenuto  Cellini. 

It  is  very  interesting  to  follow  the  development  of 
Tuscan  art  in  the  Academy  of  fine  Arts  here.  The 
large  Madonnas  by  Cimabue  and  Giotto  are  apathetic 
and  wear  cumbersome  draperies.  The  Madonnas  and 
Saints  by  Fra  Bartolomeo  are  gracious  and  stately, 
and  his  portrait  of  Savonarola  is  fine.  One  of  the 
angels  in  "The  Baptism  of  Christ,"  by  Verrochio,  is 
said  to  be  the  first  work  of  his  pupil  Leonardo  da 
Vinci.  Many  of  these  old  paintings  are  on  wood  in- 
stead of  canvas,  and  gold-leaf  is  applied  to  brighten 
them. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  99 

The  chief  attraction  in  the  academy  is  Michael  An- 
gelo's  magnificent  "David,"  with  aspiration  stamped  on 
his  noble  brow.  It  is  said  Michael  Angelo  asked  for 
the  immense  block  of  marble  which  obstructed  the 
highway,  promising  to  use  it  worthily,  and  the  won- 
derment of  Florence  was  turned  into  joy  by  his  glori- 
ous achievement  in  the  statue  of  "David,"  unrivaled  in 
the  world  of  genius. 

CHARMING  CARRIAGE  DRIVES  IN   AND  AROUND 
FLORENCE. 

One  of  our  delightful  drives  was  to  Fiesole,  an  old 
Etruscan  village  on  the  heights  above  Florence.  The 
winding  roadway  between  walls  was  hedged  with  roses 
a  part  of  the  way.  Here  the  quaint  belfry,  the  church, 
and  the  cemetery  are  interesting  landmarks  of  ancient 
days. 

Of  course,  we  visited  Ponte  Vecchio,  the  quaintest 
of  old  bridges,  edged  on  one  side  with  shops  filled  with 
curios  which  please  and  tempt  the  wayfaring  man. 
The  lack  of  time  for  shopping  alone  saves  the  way- 
faring woman  from  financial  distress.  Though  it 
would  be  too  much  to  expect  any  woman  to  leave 
Florence  without  bits  of  marble  chiseled  daintily  after 
masterpieces,  so  Apollo  Belvedere,  Venus,  Pliny's 
Doves,  and  other  miniature  sculptures  were  hurriedly 
purchased  and  tucked  away  in  satchels  and  suit-cases. 

The  charming  drive  to  Michael  Angelo's  Square 
above  the  city  was  through  avenues  shaded  by  syca- 
more and  fir  trees.  And  there  were  maples  with  clus- 
ters of  snow-white  leaves,  like  blossoms  of  new  design, 
or  white  butterflies  poised  in  balmy  air. 


100  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

We  passed  handsome  villas  with  extensive  gardens, 
lovely  vineyards,  and  shining  groves.  Needless  to  say, 
the  most  interesting  one  was  that  in  which  Galileo 
lived,  and  where  he  died  in  1642.  The  villa  of  Arceti, 
with  its  astronomical  observatory,  is  at  once  a  me- 
morial to  Galileo's  courage  through  persecution  and 
his  triumph  for  science.  In  vain  do  we  try  to  imagine 
the  converse  of  the  mighty  men  on  the  day  Milton 
visited  Galileo  in  this  villa.  They  forgot  temporal 
things  and  rejoiced  in  the  progress  of  science.  He  who 
followed  the  stars  in  their  courses  was  akin  to  the  poet 
of  empyrean  heights.  They  were  brothers  in  aspira- 
tion, friends  in  achievement,  and  joint-heirs  in  the 
Kingdom  of  God.  The  sweet  communion  of  that  day 
was  not  forgotten.  The  remembrance  of  it  enheart- 
ened  Galileo  and  Milton  for  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
remainder  of  life's  journey.  It  may  be  the  recollection 
of  it  inspired  Milton's  Hymn  of  Resignation:  "They 
also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Galileo  was  born  the  day  Michael  Angelo  died, 
and  Isaac  Newton  was  born  the  day  Galileo  died. 
Apostolic  succession  in  science,  was  it  not  ? 

From  Michael  Angelo  Square  we  saw  art  in  happy 
communion  with  nature.  The  domes,  towers,  castles, 
and  cathedrals  of  Florence  were  stately  in  tints  of  gray 
and  subdued  by  memories  of  happier  days. 

The  River  Arno  ran  merrily  across  the  green  val- 
ley and  through  the  quaint  city,  singing  all  the  way. 
On  the  hills  beyond,  myrtle  and  olive  trees  gleamed  in 
the  sunlight.  The  distant  mountains  caught  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds  above,  and  seemed  to  float  with 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  101 

them.  The  scene  begun  on  earth  was  finished  in  the 
heavens.  We  returned  from  aerial  heights  through  a 
stretch  of  primeval  forest.  Firs,  maples,  and  poplars 
overshadowed  the  tangled  vines,  lowly  type  of  tins 
complex  age.  Chief  among  the  aspiring  ones  was  the 
tall  tulip  tree.  Was  this  survivor  of  prehistoric  time 
spared  that  man  may  note  his  golden  chalice  lifted 
for  the  heavenly  draught?  And  ifo  we  learn  kind 
thoughtfulness  under  his  cool  canopy  spread  century 
after  century  for  the  refreshment  of  the  creatures  of 
earth  ? 

CHURCHES,  CATHEDRALS,  AND  OTHER  HALLOWED 
PLACES  IN   FLORENCE. 

On  Sunday  we  were  informed,  "The  churches  open 
to  visitors  are  closed;"  and  this  statement  meant  that 
the  Protestant  ministers  were  resting  for  a  season.  The 
Roman  Catholic  churches  are  always  open,  and  I  never 
saw  visitors  turned  away  from  them;  but  as  we  could 
not  understand  Italian  we  preferred  to  visit  these 
churches  when  services  were  not  being  held. 

The  American  Episcopal  Church  in  Florence, 
which  is  a  part  of  an  ancient  Roman  Catholic  church, 
is  one  of  the  oldest  on  the  continent.  In  the  little 
Protestant  cemetery  there  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  Walter  Savage  Landor,  Hiram  Powers,  and 
Theodore  Parker  await  the  resurrection  morn.  Every 
one  goes  to  the  old  church  "San  Lorenzo"  to  see  the 
chapels  encrusted  with  semi-precious  stones  and  the 
tombs  of  Julian  and  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  over  which 
are  Michael  Angelo's  celebrated  sculptures  "Day  and 
Night"  and  "Twilight  and  Dawn." 


102  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

The  residence  of  Michael  Angelo  is  still  in  a  fair 
state  of  preservation,  and  Florence  counts  it  a  choice 
possession,  hallowed  by  association. 

The  tomb  of  Michael  Angelo  and  those  of  Dante 
and  Galileo  are  in  Santa  Croce  Cathedral,  called  the 
"Pantheon  of  Italian  Glories."  This  Gothic  church 
contains  paintings  and  sculptures  by  men  of  genius, 
and  the  frescoes  are  counted  with  Giotto's  masterpieces. 
In  1865,  on  the  six  hundredth  anniversary  of  his  birth, 
a  statue  of  Dante  was  erected  in  front  of  this  ancient 
cathedral.  Michael  Angelo  was  Italy's  prophet,  and 
it  has  been  said  that  Dante  "immortalized  mediaeval 
thoughts  and  aspirations  at  the  moment  when  they 
were  already  losing  their  reality  for  the  Italian  people." 
With  pride  Florence  cherishes  the  memory  of  these 
two  greatest  masters  of  the  world  of  genius  born  on 
her  soil. 

Dante's  house  is  also  preserved,  and  the  old  stone 
upon  which  he  sat  in  moody  silence  was  pointed  out 
to  us.  Ah!  but  he  was  dreaming  dreams  and  seeing 
visions  beyond  the  ken  of  many  men.  One  of  the 
noble  army  of  martyrs  of  whom  the  world  was  not 
worthy,  Dante  shall  live  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

The  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore  or  Duomo  Cathedral, 
one  of  the  grandest  Gothic  structures  in  Europe,  was 
consecrated  in  1436  and  finished  centuries  later.  It  was 
built  of  white  and  colored  marbles  and  first  impresses 
one  most  with  its  extraordinary  grace.  Architecture 
has  been  called  frozen  music,  but  the  glitter  of  ice  is 
not  here.  The  glowing  tints  of  early  dawn  and  the 
melody  of  divine  aspiration  are  caught  in  the  stone. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  103 

Indeed,  architecture  is  forgotten  in  the  contemplation 
of  this  flower  of  art.  The  heaven-born  talent  of  five 
men  of  genius  is  united  in  this  edifice  for  the  adoration 
of  the  King  of  Icings.  Designed  by  Arnolfo,  its  double 
dome  suggested  by  Brunnelleschi,  with  statues  over  its 
doors  by  Donatello,  stained-glass  windows  by  Ghiberti, 
and  its  marvelous  campanile  by  Giotto,  the  cathedral 
is  truly  awe-inspiring  in  its  grandeur. 

Magistrates  of  the  republic  ordered  a  bell-tower 
for  this  cathedral  to  be  so  magnificent  in  height  and 
quality  of  work  as  to  excel  everything  done  by  the 
Greeks  and  Romans  during  their  greatest  prosperity, 
and  its  foundation  was  laid  in  July,  1334.  Giotto  died 
before  his  work  was  half  finished,  but  his  design  was 
carried  on  to  completion.  Charles  V  said  it  was 
worthy  to  be  preserved  under  a  crystal.  This  wonder- 
ful campanile  stands  apart  from  the  church;  it  is  300 
feet  tall  and  is  as  graceful  as  a  lily.  We  can  fancy 
the  curfew  rung  from  its  airy  height  a  call  to  quiet 
meditation  of  joys  beyond  earthly  habitation. 

Near  the  Duomo  is  the  old  octagonal  baptistery, 
called  by  Ruskin  "the  central  building  of  Etrurian 
Christianity."  Scenes  from  the  Bible  are  minutely 
and  marvelously  wrought  on  the  bronze  doors,  de- 
signed by  Ghiberti  and  declared  by  Michael  Angelo 
"worthy  to  be  the  gates  of  Paradise." 

The  founders  of  the  two  great  religious  orders 
which  flourished  here — St.  Francis,  who  taught  the 
Gospel  of  Works;  and  St.  Dominic,  who  lived  the 
Gospel  of  Faith — built  memorials  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  generations  have  arisen  to  call  them  blessed.     I 


LIBRARY 

WtethodJst  Board  of  Missions* 

NASHVILLE.  TENM. 


104  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

think  it  was  the  gentle  St.  Francis  who  preached  to 
the  birds,  his  "little  brothers  of  the  air." 

The  old  Vecchio  Palace,  once  capital  of  the  repub- 
lic, later  a  prison,  and  now  the  city  hall,  looks  like  a 
fortress.  Near  the  main  entrance  a  bronze  tablet  in 
the  pavement  marks  the  spot  on  which  Savonarola  was 
burned,  and  in  the  sparkling  waters  of  Neptune's  foun- 
tain we  seemed  to  hear  a  murmur  for  the  errors  of 
misguided  men.  The  courageous  monk  dared  to  ex- 
press the  indignation  of  the  oppressed  people,  and  he 
counted  his  life  none  too  dear  to  be  offered  for  the 
establishment  of  just  and  righteous  government. 

Casa  Guida,  the  house  in  which  Robert  and  Eliza- 
beth Browning  lived,  seemed  a  hallowed  place  to  us. 
A  tablet  on  the  outer  wall  records  the  love  and  grati- 
tude with  which  Mrs.  Browning  is  remembered  in 
Italy  for  her  beneficent  work.  And  who  may  say  how 
many  faltering  ones  shall  yet  be  inspired  by  one  im- 
mortal thought  as  she  gave  it: 

"Whosoever  may 
Discern  true  ends  here,  shall  grow  pure  enough 
To  love  them,  brave  enough  to  strive  for  them, 
And  strong  enough  to  reach  them,  though  the  roads 
be  rough?" 


From  the  Appenine  Mountains  to  the  Adriatic 
Sea  —  Venice  —  Milan    and   the    Plains   of 

LOMBARDY STRESSA,     ON      LAKE     MaGGIORE 

The  Best  Wine  of  Italy. 

July    1 6th. 

FROM    THE    APPENINE   MOUNTAINS   TO    THE    ADRIATIC 

SEA. 

As  we  journeyed  toward  Venice  we  looked  at  fair 
Florence  until  her  quaint  Ponte  Vecchio,  her  grand 
cathedral,  and  her  campanile,  marvel  of  grace,  were  lost 
in  the  clouds  and  the  song  of  the  River  Arno  was  no 
longer  heard. 

The  ingratiating  Appenine  Mountains  lured  us  on, 
and  soon  held  us  captive  as  the  train  groped  through 
tunnels  innumerable.  The  darkness  was  impenetrable 
without,  and  we  felt  it  within.  The  lawyer  was  un- 
able to  extricate  us,  nor  could  the  teacher  lead  us  into 
luminous  depths.  We  were  the  silent  Seven,  and  in 
the  dimly-lighted  compartment,  with  eyes  half  shut, 
we  looked  like  graven  images  with  not  a  worshiper  to 
fall  at  our  feet.  At  last  we  emerged  from  the  forty- 
six  tunnels,  visited  our  friends  in  the  other  compart- 
ment, and  learned  the  M.  D.  and  D.  D.  had  acquitted 
themselves  nobly,  for  their  fellow-prisoners  were  well, 
and  well  indoctrinated.  "La  Conducteur"  bought  na- 
tive wine   as  weak   as  water,   but   in   pretty,   straw- 

105 


106  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

covered  bottles;  and  this,  with  the  basket-luncheon,  re- 
stored us. 

We  looked  out  upon  the  cultivated  valleys,  terraced 
hills  of  gray  olive  trees,  and  fields  of  flax  swayed  by 
every  breeze.  Ceres,  in  cloth  of  gold,  embroidered 
with  scarlet,  presided  over  cornfields  dotted  with  pop- 
pies. The  little  farms  were  divided  by  rows  of  Lom- 
bardy  poplars,  and  the  peasants  sought  shady  places  at 
midday.  The  atmosphere  was  heavy  and  sultry,  and 
the  afternoon  thunderstorm  was  an  undisguised  bless- 
ing. Suddenly  a  rainbow  of  supernal  beauty  spanned 
the  heavens,  and  the  earth  rejoiced  anew  in  the  ever- 
lasting promises  of  God. 

We  were  due  in  Venice  at  7.30  P.  M.,  but  when 
we  arrived  it  was  19.30  o'clock  there.  A  number  of 
Venetians  were  at  the  station,  apparently  to  meet  us, 
though  they  did  not  greet  us,  and  there  were  no  car- 
riages nor  cabs,  and  not  even  a  one-horse  cart  to  take 
us  to  the  hotel.  Not  an  automobile  was  there  to  rush 
us  through  the  city,  and  there  were  no  airships  in  sight. 
To  sink  or  swim,  survive  or  perish  seemed  inevitable, 
for  the  tortoise  had  sauntered  across  a  bridge  and  left 
us  on  an  island,  with  the  Adriatic  Sea  on  one  side  and 
the  lagoons  all  around  us.  As  we  scanned  the  gray 
skies  and  dull  waters,  the  air  was  rent  with  a  babel  of 
tongues,  and  the  lagoons  were  dotted  with  queer  little 
black  boats.  On  account  of  the  rain  the  gondolas  with 
cabins  were  used,  and  they  looked  like  houseboats  for 
the  pygmies  of  pixies. 

It  was  a  bit  disconcerting  to  hear  the  gondolier  of 
sentimental  story  fiercely  assail  his  competitor  in  trade, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  107 

and  somewhat  disappointing  to  see  the  gondola  with 
shining  prow  piled  up  with  suit-cases.  The  contest 
between  gondoliers  became  interesting,  and  the  musi- 
cian, the  chaperon,  the  little  Princess,  and  "La  Conduc- 
teur"  looked  half-frightened  as  we  passed  them.  The 
M.  D.,  his  charming  wife,  the  lovely  Sisters,  and  I 
were  together,  and  our  gondolier,  throwing  aside  his 
cloak,  shot  past  all  hated  rivals  in  this  race  on  the 
silvery  waves.  Our  gondola  was  the  first  one  to  enter 
the  Grand  Canal,  and  then  romance  was  partially  vin- 
dicated. 

Our  graceful  gondolier  donned  his  picturesque 
cloak  and  became  the  cavalier  of  the  seas.  He  pointed 
out  historic  palaces,  and  in  charming  voice  sang 
snatches  of  Italian  love-songs.  "  'T  is  love  makes  the 
old  world  go  round,"  and  we  who  looked  backward 
wondered  if  those  who  looked  forward  would  find  the 
happiness  old  days  held  for  the  trysting  and  trustful 
youth.  The  distrust  among  men  of  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury robs  it  of  the  best  of  earthly  blessings. 

A  succession  of  handsome  buildings  front  on  Grand 
Canal,  and  in  one  lovely  garden  a  man  clothed  in 
white  gathered  great  clusters  of  pink  oleander  blossoms, 
and  the  fine  old  palace  seemed  very  homelike.  The 
man  may  have  been  a  Merchant  of  Venice,  certainly 
no  Shylock  ever  gathered  dainty  petals  with  such  tender 
care. 

This  palace  and  many  others  are  adorned  with 
marble  medallions  and  ornate  figures  of  colored  stones 
set  in  the  outer  walls,  some  of  them  being  the  ensigns 
armorial  of  families  of  distinction.    We  felt  a  peculiar 


108  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

interest  in  Lord  Byron's  palace  and  the  one  in  which 
Robert  Browning  died,  for  we  are  debtors  to  these 
great  poets. 

We  were  the  first  to  reach  the  hotel,  and  were 
courteously  welcomed  by  Venetians  who  can  neither 
speak  nor  be  spoken  to  in  English.  The  incoming  tide 
of  the  Adriatic  covered  the  door-steps,  and  we  walked 
from  the  gondola  into  the  vestibule  of  the  reception 
hall.  Our  hotel  fronts  on  Grand  Canal,  and  it  is 
built  upon  two  or  three  of  the  117  islands  which  en- 
able Venice  to  keep  her  head  above  the  softly-flowing 
tides  of  the  Adriatic  Sea.  Its  court  for  flowers  and 
statuary,  the  fine  old  ebony  furniture,  and  bronze  or- 
naments give  color  to  the  report  that  it  was  once  a 
grand  palace  of  dukes,  if  not  doges,  of  Venice.  We 
crossed  one  of  the  378  bridges  of  Venice  to  reach  the 
dining-room,  and  it  was  past  21  o'clock  when  we 
finished  dinner  and  retired  to  our  rooms. 

My  little  room  is  long  and  narrow.  The  carpet 
of  Venetian  red  has  curious  designs  wrought  in  green, 
black,  and  blue  velvet,  and  the  window  draperies  har- 
monize with  it.  The  old  mahogany  furniture  belongs 
to  a  past  century,  and  the  souvenir  hunter  might  covet 
the  brass  candlestick  and  the  odd  little  water-bottle, 
which  I  'd  much  rather  possess  than  the  great  toe  joint 
of  a  saint.  I  listened  for  the  "voices  of  the  night," 
and  heard  a  good  deal  besides  the  song  of  the  mosquito 
quartet  beyond  the  bar  of  bobinet.  At  22  o'clock  the 
bells  of  Venice  chimed  in  unison,  and  at  23  o'clock 
harmonious  notes  again  pealed  forth.  At  24  o'clock 
the  old  bronze  giants  pounded  on  the  bell  of  the  great 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  109 

timekeeper  in  St.  Mark's  Square,  and  the  midnight 
melody  of  Venice  mingled  with  sweet  tones  from  afar. 
The  music  of  the  islands  floated  out  to  sea  and  became 
a  part  of  its  grand  symphony. 

Under  the  star-lit  skies,  with  the  perfume  of 
flowers  drifting  through  the  night,  Venice  with  poetic 
highways,  her  quaint  reckoning  of  time,  and  midnight 
lullabies  seemed  scarcely  more  real  than  dreamland, 
except  that  the  hungry  mosquitoes  would  have  eaten  us 
alive  but  for  the  bar  of  bobinet. 

In  the  early  dawn  my  window  framed  a  tiny  land- 
scape and  one  of  nature's  fascinating  aquarelles  in  blue 
and  gray  and  pink,  for  the  banners  of  light  flung  across 
the  east  were  reflected  in  the  limpid  waters  of  the 
Grand  Canal.  Two  gondolas  were  moored  under  the 
vine-covered  arbor  of  the  private  wharf  below,  and  the 
forsaken  fountain  near  by  was  rilled  with  the  rose- 
colored  oleanders  which  perfumed  the  night  and  added 
loveliness  to  the  morning.  The  gray  palace  with  mar- 
ble cornices  and  large  observatory  across  the  street 
seems  to  be  deserted.  But  who  knows  how  often  curi- 
ous people  may  still  peep  through  the  little  six-inch 
shutters  built  in  the  middle  of  the  heavy  ones? 

At  breakfast  a  compatriot  of  ours  said  she  heard 
somebody  splashing  in  the  bath  near  her  room  all  night. 
For  this  may  the  Adriatic  cease  not  her  slumber-song 
for  Americans  yet  to  come !  The  old  lady  thought  the 
pink  salt-cellar  was  an  electric  light  bulb,  but  she  he- 
roically refrained  from  remarking  on  the  waiter's  care- 
lessness in  leaving  it  on  the  table. 

The  continental  breakfast  grows  in  favor,  and  the 


110  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

Old  Gentleman  admits  that  It  is  "better  than  no  break- 
fast." I  quite  agree  with  him,  since  I  've  learned  to 
subdue  crusty  little  mountains  and  to  devour  extinct 
volcanoes.  By  pressing  with  all  my  strength  on  the 
bottom  crust,  the  diminutive  mountain  is  reduced  to 
fragments,  and  honest  labor  is  rewarded.  Perhaps  the 
"intestine  discords"  of  old  Italy,  mentioned  in  guide- 
books, were  due  more  to  political  ambition  and  re- 
ligious aspiration  than  to  the  cold  and  monotonous  meal 
of  the  morning. 

st.  mark's  square  and  st.  mark's  cathedral. 

With  its  fluttering  doves,  military  bands,  enticing 
shops,  royal  palaces,  the  grand  cathedral  and  strange 
peoples  all  in  sight  at  once,  St.  Mark's  Square  is  the 
most  popular  and  attractive  place  in  Venice.  Every 
visitor  buys  grain  for  St.  Mark's  doves,  which  are 
tame  enough  to  be  fed  from  the  hand.  In  the  after- 
noon, when  the  bronze  giants  strike  the  great  bell 
for  2  o'clock,  thousands  of  doves  alight  for  their  daily 
feast  provided  by  the  City  Fathers  of  Venice.  It  is 
said  six  thousand  of  these  pigeons  died  recently  from 
some  mysterious  disease,  and  that  all  Venice  mourned. 
The  famous  glass  factories  constitute  one  of  the  chief 
sources  of  revenue  for  the  city,  and  it  is  interesting  to 
see  the  great  variety  of  beautiful  things  manufactured 
by  the  skilled  artisans;  ornaments,  vases,  chandeliers, 
etc.  The  little  shops  glitter  with  bronzes,  brasses,  and 
beads  of  every  conceivable  hue  and  shape. 

In  the  lace  factories,  for  one  franc  a  day  (twenty 
cents    in    our   money)    girls   spend    their    young   lives 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  111 

bending  over  spools  and  cushions  to  make  duchesse, 
Venetian,  rose  point,  and  other  fine  laces.  An  eight- 
hundred-dollar  lace  robe  and  a  two-thousand-dollar 
bertha  were  very  beautiful,  but  they  were  simple  com- 
pared to  a  royal  robe  on  which  forty  women  had 
worked  for  nearly  two  years.  Under  the  clever  guise 
of  shopping  for  a  friend  in  Tennessee,  the  little  Bride- 
to-be  bought  her  own  exquisite  bridal  veil,  edged  with 
rose-point  lace,  while  the  rest  of  us  invested  in  tiny 
pieces  of  real  lace,  fancy  fan-chains  and  hat  pins  of 
counterfeit  precious  stones. 

St.  Mark's  lion  guards  unceasingly  the  royal  pal- 
aces and  the  arsenal  gates,  being  bold  in  bronze  and 
not  much  more  saintly  in  flawless  white  marble.  In- 
sects are  said  to  be  numerous  here,  but  real,  live,  four- 
footed  beasts  are  scarce.  There  are  very  few  cats  and 
no  dogs  in  Venice,  but  we  've  seen  some  little  boys 
here  as  restless  and  fidgety  as  the  one  in  America 
who  told  his  Sunday-school  teacher  he  had  a  flea  in 
his  pocket. 

The  four  horses  in  Venice  are  historical,  if  not  zo- 
ological, specimens,  and  they  may  be  seen  by  every  one 
who  visits  St.  Mark's  Square,  for  these  fiery  steeds 
of  bronze,  captured  on  foreign  shores  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  are  kept  on  the  facade  of  St.  Mark's 
Cathedral.  The  chaperon  was  bitterly  disappointed 
not  to  find  above  the  entrance  to  St.  Mark's  the  angels 
with  glittering  wings  so  graphically  described  by  emi- 
nent writers. 

St.  Mark's  Cathedral,  begun  in  the  ninth  century 
and  rebuilt  after  several  destructive  fires,  is  a  pile  of 


112  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

Romanesque-Byzantine  architecture  adorned  with  five 
domes  and  five  hundred  marble  columns.  The  guide 
points  to  pillars  of  porphyry,  jasper,  and  Verdantique, 
and  other  treasures  from  Tyre,  Greece,  Constantinople, 
and  indeed  from  wherever  the  Venetian  fleet  touched, 
until  we  are  reminded  of  the  resourcefulness  of  Sinbad 
the  Sailor. 

The  interior  of  this  vast  cathedral  is  more  impres- 
sive to  me  than  the  gorgeous  exterior.  The  pulpit  of 
agate  was  brought  from  Palestine;  and  the  choir  is 
richly  adorned  with  bas-reliefs  in  bronze,  portraying 
incidents  in  the  life  of  St.  Mark.  The  faces  of  Are- 
tino  and  Titian  on  the  bronze  door  of  the  sacristy  are 
the  work  of  the  famous  Sansovine,  of  whom  doges  and 
kings  stood  in  awe.  St.  Mark's  fine  and  ancient  mo- 
saics are  unsurpassed,  and  the  walls  are  encrusted  and 
floors  inlaid  with  these  semi-precious  stones. 

Beginning  with  the  creation,  countless  scenes  and 
events  in  the  history  of  the  world  are  depicted  in  mar- 
bles. Though  I  doubt  if  any  fox  was  ever  carried  to 
his  grave  by  two  roosters  except  in  fable  or  fantastic 
mosaics  on  the  floor  of  St.  Mark's.  The  Virgin  Mary 
and  her  ancestors  perched  on  the  limbs  of  their  gene- 
alogical tree  are  ill  at  ease,  probably  remembering  that 
pride  goeth  before  a  fall. 

St.  Mark's  bones  were  brought  from  Alexandria, 
Egypt,  to  be  entombed  beneath  this  costly  and  sacred 
pile  which  bears  his  revered  name,  one  of  the  most 
famous  cathedrals  in  the  world.  Venetians  say  Pope 
Pius  X  longs  to  return  to  Venice  and  to  the  people 
most  dear  to  him,  and  from  whom  he  was  so  unex- 


JOORDS  VXTMTV7TI  XSIC 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  113 

pectedly  transported — not  to  the  skies,  but  the  Apos- 
tolic See.  Not  in  many  years,  we  hope,  but  doubtless 
even  his  bones  shall  be  expected  to  rest  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Vatican. 

The  campanile  which  collapsed  in  1902  is  being 
rebuilt,  and  the  new  structure  will  be  very  similar  to 
the  old  one,  which  had  stood  more  than  a  thousand 
years  in  St.  Mark's  Square  before  it  "sat  down."  The 
noble  granite  columns  in  this  square — one  surmounted 
by  the  winged  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  and  the  other  by 
St.  Theodore  treading  on  a  crocodile — were  pro-' 
nounced  by  John  Ruskin  the  most  beautiful  columns 
in   the  world. 

July  17th. 

PALACE  OF  THE  DOGES  AND  THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

After  leaving  St.  Mark's  we  went  through  the  old 
palace  of  the  doges  and  climbed  the  golden  stairway 
once  sacred  to  despotic  rulers.  Pillars  of  Jasper,  man- 
tels of  Carrara  marble,  the  throne  on  which  one  hun- 
dred doges  were  crowned,  and  the  lion's  head  in  the 
Sallo  della  Bussola,  seemingly  an  ornament,  but  in 
reality  a  secret  letter-box  for  denunciations  in  days  of 
political  intrigue,  treachery  and  cruelty,  are  among  the 
many  objects  of  interest  here.  Frescoes  by  Tintor- 
retto,  and  famous  paintings,  "The  Rape  of  Europa," 
by  Veronese,  and  "Christ  before  Pilate,"  by  Durer,  are 
among  the  art-treasures  of  the  palace. 

From  this  place  of  grandeur,  though  not  through 
the  secret  door  from  the  Hall  of  the  "Chief  Three," 
we  crossed  over  the  "Bridge  of  Sighs,"  and  went  down 
8 


114  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

into  the  dark  dungeons.  The  two  ranges  of  prisons, 
known  in  history  as  the  Pozzi,  for  criminal  and  po- 
litical prisoners  were  entirely  separate,  but  there  is  no 
record  that  the  aristocrat  was  happier  there  than  the 
prisoner  of  low  degree.  Not  a  ray  of  daylight  could 
reach  any  of  the  dungeons,  but  each  had  a  small  open- 
ing through  which  the  priest  might  shrive  the  con- 
demned man. 

PICTURES   AND   POETIC    HIGHWAYS. 

St.  George's  Church  and  School  cover  the  little 
island  on  which  they  stand,  and  a  picture  of  striking 
beauty,  seemingly  sketched  on  the  horizon,  is  reflected 
in  the  canal.  In  fact  there  are  so  many  pictures  out- 
of-doors  in  Venice,  it  is  difficult  to  turn  from  them  ex- 
cept for  the  desire  to  see  the  masterpieces  of  art  in 
the  museums  and  churches. 

One  day  our  gondolier  carried  us  out  into  the  la- 
goons, and  in  the  waste  of  waters  we  saw  a  funeral 
procession  as  it  neared  the  Silent  Island,  sacred  to  the 
dead.  A  barge  slowly  conveyed  the  casket,  followed 
by  two  gondolas  carrying  the  bereaved  ones  to  pay  the 
last  tribute  of  respect  to  their  loved  one.  The  sky 
was  overcast  and  with  the  gray  waters  formed  a  most 
desolate  background  for  the  scene  of  infinite  pathos. 
It  was  some  consolation  to  see  evergreens  growing  on 
the  Silent  Island,  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  dreari- 
ness of  that  lowly  funeral  procession  in  the  lagoons 
of  Venice. 

The  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  is  rich  in  interior  dec- 
orations and  contains  many  famous  paintings,  includ- 


,       LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  115 

ing  "The  Ascension  of  the  Virgin,"  by  Titian;  "Ma- 
donna and  Child,"  by  Tintorretti ;  and  "The  Annun- 
ciation," by  Veronese.  Paul  Veronese's  delight  in 
large  descriptive  paintings  is  shown  in  his  "Feast  in 
the  House  of  Levi,"  representing  three  gorgeous 
scenes.  Here  are  pen-and-ink  sketches  showing  how 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  developed  his  masterpieces. 

In  Venice  we  have  the  poetry  of  motion  as  gondolas 
glide  past  palaces  and  prisons  of  olden  time.  The 
Queen  of  the  Adriatic  is  robed  in  a  wondrous  fabric 
of  past  centuries,  woven  of  crimson  and  gold,  and 
sparkling  with  gems,  and  the  mystic  spell  of  her  charm 
is  unbroken. 

Architecture  flowered  when  dukes,  emperors,  and 
kings  of  Italy  demanded  palaces  designed  by  masters 
of  the  fine  arts.  Many  of  the  fine  palaces  in  Venice 
seem  to  float  on  Grand  Canal,  their  windows  and  bal- 
conies of  stone  furnished  with  scarlet  cushions  that 
the  pageantry  of  Venice  may  be  enjoyed  in  luxurious 
ease  as  the  great  festival  processions  of  Church  and 
State  sail  grandly  by  and  the  applause  of  the  spectators 
rings  from  shore  to  shore. 

There  are  days  when  the  funeral  procession,  most 
impressive  of  all,  slowly  wends  its  way  to  the  Silent 
Island  and  a  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead  is  heard  in 
the  rhythm  of  the  waves;  and  there  are  days  when 
sweet  music  heralds  the  approach  of  a  joyous  wedding 
party  on  their  way  to  St.  Mark's  or  some  other  historic 
church  along  this  poetic  highway.  Pleasure-loving 
people  glide  past  in  the  glare  of  noon-day,  and  in  the 
shadows  of  evening  merry  song  and  musical  laughter 


116  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

from  gondolas  with  shining  prow  entertain  the  spec- 
tators luxuriating  in  palaces  reflected  in  cool  waters. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  us  inappropriate  for  ladies  to 
go  out  on  the  water  wearing  their  elegant  gowns  and 
hats  with  delicate  plumes,  but  the  gondola  is  the  fash- 
ionable conveyance  in  this  city  of  the  lagoons,  and  the 
Grand  Canal  is  its  principal  avenue. 

The  proud  gondola  still  has  the  right  of  way  in 
these  poetic  highways  of  Venice,  and  the  steam  launch 
is  counted  an  intrusive  plebeian.  Nevertheless,  the 
Grand  Canal  being  twelve  feet  deep,  steam  and  electric 
launches  blithely  run  from  end  to  end,  little  caring  for 
the  occasional  snub,  sure  to  come.  One  day,  with  up- 
lifted finger,  our  gondolier  stopped  a  large  launch 
loaded  with  passengers  and  leisurely  rowed  across  the 
path  of  the  interloper,  viewing  it  with  scorn  and  de- 
rision. Speaking  of  launches,  I  am  reminded  of  an 
amusing  experience  of  yesterday,  when  a  party  of  our 
friends  went  out  in  an  electric  launch  and  were  star- 
tled by  the  continuous  ringing  of  its  alarm-bell  until 
they  discovered  the  Old  Gentleman  had  fallen  asleep 
on  the  electric  button. 

A  steam  launch  took  us  to  the  public  gardens,  which 
are  attractive  with  fine  trees  and  the  largest,  most 
brilliant  begonias  I  ever  saw.  Not  far  off  a  bit  of  Sar- 
gossa  Sea,  with  white  gulls  flying  over  and  dipping 
down  into  the  tall  yellow  grass,  made  a  charming 
little  picture.  Some  of  our  party  went  on  out  to 
Lido,  the  fashionable  bathing  resort  of  the  Adriatic; 
but,  not  caring  for  the  study  of  comparative  anatomy, 
I  returned  to  the  city. 

On  the  launch  I  conversed  with  a  cultured  Ameri- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  117 

can  woman,  who  said  many  Americans  bring  their 
children  and  live  in  Italy  for  years,  because  they  can 
obtain  more  for  their  money.  I  guess  she  belongs  to 
the  American  Colony  in  Italy,  for  she  smiled  when 
I  said  I  'd  rather  live  in  America  and  have  fewer 
things.  And  while  I  do  wish  a  great  number  of 
Americans  might  have  the  benefit  of  a  trip  to  Europe, 
I  believe  America  is  the  best  country  in  which  to  rear 
sons  and  daughters  for  the  life  we  live. 

On  a  very  hot  afternoon  the  young  woman  in  a 
shop  said,  "We  call  this  a  sirrocco;"  we  had  a  time 
of  discomfort  until  a  thunderstorm  brought  relief  in 
the  evening. 

In  Venice  reality  seems  like  a  dream,  and  fiction 
becomes  fact.  The  palace  of  Desdemona,  who  mar- 
ried Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice,  is  near  our  hotel. 
Shakespeare  seems  to  be  near  us  with  the  "Merchant 
of  Venice"  and  his  friends  who  are  distressed  and  dis- 
mayed by  the  demand  of  the  merciless  Shylock,  and  we 
are  glad  the  fair  Portia  has  the  ability  to  outwit  him. 

We  bought  souvenirs  in  the  shops  on  the  Bridge- 
of-the-Rialto,  passed  over  it,  and  saw  the  site  of  the 
hated  Shylock's  home  and  his  auction  block  of  the  old 
market-place.  Near  there  a  man  with  a  basket  of  de- 
licious peaches  weighed  two  on  his  little  scales  and  sold 
them  to  us  for  twelve  cents.  An  old  woman  was  bent 
almost  double  under  her  basket  of  cucumbers,  and  it 
seemed  wiser  not  to  patronize  her  that  day. 

Americans  are  not  the  only  people  here  amused  by 
the  sound  of  foreign  tongues.  Yesterday,  as  we  crossed 
a  bridge  the  voice  and  intonations  of  a  member  of 
our  party  were  so  perfectly  mimicked  there  was  no 


118  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

misunderstanding  it,  even  if  a  man  below  us  had  not 
shrieked  with  laughter  when  we  looked  around  to  dis- 
cover whence  came  the  echo. 

If  we  are  not  growing  saintly,  we  should,  at  least, 
become  slightly  artistic,  for  at  luncheon  we  often  eat 
"Filet  de  Saint  Pierre  a  la  Richelieu,"  which  is  not 
bad,  and  "Peches  a  l'Aurore,"  which  are  delicious. 
Nearly  every  day  in  Europe  we  have  had  "Poulet"  or 
"Poulardi"  for  dinner,  and  it  would  rejoice  our  every- 
day American  host  to  see  the  fowl  carved  and  dex- 
trously  served  from  the  silver  platter  by  the  waiter. 

The  parlors  of  this  hotel  are  on  the  same  island 
with  the  dining-saloon,  and  sometimes  we  congregate 
there  for  a  moment's  review  of  the  procession  passing 
on  Grand  Canal.  To-day  after  luncheon  a  young 
lady  in  lavender  and  new  lace  sat  on  the  terrace  writ- 
ing, and,  as  sometimes  happens,  the  fountain-pen  played 
at  both  ends.  She  leaned  over  the  steps,  washed  her 
fingers  in  the  canal  without  soiling  dainty  lingerie  or 
even  getting  her  white  plumes  splashed. 

If  Venice  in  daylight  is  indescribable,  what  shall 
I  say  of  it  as  viewed  by  moonlight?  We  spent  one 
evening  in  gondolas,  and  after  circuitous  courses 
through  the  lagoons  we  re-entered  the  Grand  Canal, 
joined  the  flotilla  surrounding  the  barge  of  musicians, 
who  sang  sweetly  and  changed  the  ethereal  city  into 
one  of  tuneful  reality. 

We  do  not  see  rich  argosies  of  spices  and  silks,  nor 
high-prowed  galleys,  victorious  of  old,  sailing  the  Adri- 
atic; but  here  are  tokens  of  the  days  when  Venice  was 
mistress  of  the  seas,  and  also  traces  of  despotic  tyranny 
which  may  have  hastened  her  downfall. 


FROM  THE  ADRIATIC  SEA  TO  THE  PLAINS  OF  LOMBARDY. 

Milan,  July  18,  1908. 

In  the  journey  from  Venice  we  passed  through 
Verona,  an  ancient  city  of  distinction.  Long  ago  it 
was  adorned  with  a  circus  and  amphitheater  built  by 
Roman  emperors,  and  the  Roman  gateways  are  stand- 
ing here  after  more  than  fifteen  centuries.  Verona  was 
the  birthplace  of  Paul  Veronese,  whose  masterpieces, 
"The  Marriage  in  Cana"  and  "The  Supper  in  the 
House  of  Simon  the  Leper,"  are  unsurpassed  in  scenes 
of  dignity,  grace,  and  magnificence.  Another  honored 
son  of  Verona  was  Pliny,  the  elder,  who  perished  in 
his  endeavor  to  see  the  volcano  in  eruption  the  day 
Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  were  overthrown  by  earth- 
quake and  buried  by  sand  and  lava  from  Mt.  Vesuvius. 
Shakespeare  makes  us  believe  Romeo  and  Juliet  lived 
in  Verona,  and  that  their  distressful  love-tragedy  for- 
ever wiped  out  the  enmity  between  Capulet  and  Mon- 
tague. The  tomb  of  Capulet,  in  which  the  despairing 
lovers  courted  Death,  is  pointed  out,  but  I  doubt  if 
anybody  ever  saw  the  statue  of  Juliet  in  pure  gold 
promised  (in  the  romance)  by  Montague.  "All  the 
world  loves  a  lover,"  and  none  more  truly  than  these 
radiant  ones  created  by  the  immortal  Shakespeare. 

Passing  through  Padua  we  glimpsed  the  famous 
university,  founded  in  1222,  and  other  honorable  edi- 
fices of   the   city.     One   of   the   most   widely   sought 

119 


120  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

places  in  Europe  by  lovers  of  Christian  art  is  the  little 
Arena  Chapel  at  Padua,  designed  and  painted  by- 
Giotto  in  1306;  and  St.  Antoine  church  contains  cele- 
brated bronzes  by  Donatello.  The  monument  there 
to  Garibaldi  and  the  Victor  Emmanuel  Square  honor 
men  dear  to  Italy,  and  the  Botanical  Gardens  are  said 
to  be  the  oldest  in  Europe. 

For  miles  we  skirted  the  lake  of  Garda,  the 
largest  lake  in  Northern  Italy,  along  whose  shores  pic- 
turesque villages  were  scattered.  On  the  hills  beyond 
the  lake  were  battlemented  castles,  and  not  far  off  we 
sighted  the  Alps,  once  seen,  never  to  be  forgotten. 
This  lake  was  well  known  to  the  Romans  as  Be- 
nacus:  Virgil  tells  of  its  sudden  storms,  which  fre- 
quently arise  now,  though  all  was  tranquil  as  we 
passed  along. 

It  was  raining  when  we  reached  Milan,  and  we 
went  directly  to  the  Hotel  du  Nord  where  luncheon 
was  served  at  once.  For  the  first  time  since  leaving 
the  good  ship  Slavonia  our  party  sat  at  one  table,  and 

the  blessing  invoked  by  Rev.  Dr.  B gave  a  pleasing 

suggestion  of  homelikeness.  We  were  hungry,  and 
the  foreign  dishes,  including  "Poulardi  ne  au  riz  a  la 
Cardinal,"  were  so  palatable  we  decided  cardinals 
know  what  to  eat  in  Italy. 

The  fruits  of  Italy  are  as  beautiful  as  they  are 
luscious,  and  no  mortal  man  may  escape  temptation 
through  the  fine  figs,  apricots  shot  with  sunshine,  and 
cherries  like  great  rubies. 

In  spite  of  the  rain,  carriages  were  ordered,  and 
immediately  after  luncheon  we  stared  out  sight-seeing. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  121 

Milan's  masterpieces  in  art  and  architecture. 
Of  course,  we  went  first  to  Santa  Maria  delle  Gar- 
zie  to  see  "The  Last  Supper,"  painted  by  Leonardo 
da  Vinci  in  1499,  which  is  one  of  the  twelve  most 
celebrated  paintings  in  the  world.  This  wonderful 
painting  on  the  wall  of  the  refectory  of  the  old  convent 
bears  evidences  of  the  vicissitudes  of  war  and  the  rav- 
ages of  time.  Napoleon  turned  this  building  into  a 
stable  and  ordered  a  door  cut  for  his  horses,  though 
fortunately  the  opening  was  below  the  table  at  which 
the  Master  and  His  disciples  are  seated.  This  mar- 
velous painting  is  much  faded,  and  from  time  to  time 
artists  of  renown  have  reverently  labored  to  restore 
and  preserve  it.  The  delineation  of  the  features  and 
the  attitude  of  the  Master  and  His  disciples  are  life- 
like, irresistible,  and  overpowering,  and  the  perspective 
in  the  picture  is  perfect.  It  is  comforting  to  look  from 
the  sorrowful  countenance  of  the  Master  and  the  ques- 
tioning faces  of  the  agitated  disciples  seated  at  the 
table  and  glimpse  through  the  windows  the  running 
streams,  everlasting  hills,  and  blessed  skies  of  this  won- 
derful painting.  And  did  not  the  Master  Himself 
often  turn  to  things  out  of  doors  for  comfort  In  times 
of  stress  and  sorrow?  It  is  grievous  to  stand  in  the 
presence  of  these  perturbed  men,  soon  to  see  enacted 
the  world-tragedy  of  nearly  nineteen  centuries  ago, 
which  pulsates  throughout  the  universe  to-day.  Yet 
again  and  again  we  look  upon  "The  Last  Supper," 
with  its  irresistible  charms  which  overpower  the  eyes 
and  strengthen  the  spirit.  Pupils  of  the  great  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  have  copied  this  masterpiece  in  art  on 


122  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

the  side-walls,  and  the  old  refectory  seems  a  holy  place. 
From  the  old  Convent  of  Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie 
we  drove  to  Milan's  masterpiece  in  architecture,  the 
cathedral,  which  seemed  no  less  a  holy  place  because 
perfectly  radiant  in  grace  and  loveliness. 

The  Cathedral  of  Milan  is  said  to  be  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world,  and  I  do  not  expect  to  see 
another  half  so  fair  as  this  one  of  white  marble.  The 
cathedral  was  founded  in  1386  by  Giovanni  Galeazzo 
Visconti  on  the  spot  where  a  pagan  temple  of  Minerva 
once  stood.  The  interior  with  its  immense  nave, 
pointed  Gothic  arches  supported  by  massive  marble  pil- 
lars, and  finely-proportioned  aisles  form  the  perfection 
of  architecture.  The  wonderful  stained-glass  windows 
reproduce  scenes  from  the  Old  and  New  Testaments 
and  give  indescribable  charm  to  the  solemnity  of  the 
place.     Services  were  being  held  in  several  chapels  by 

devout  Roman  Catholics,  and  Mrs.  B and  I  spent 

a  few  quiet  moments  with  them,  though  we  scarcely 
understood  the  signs  and  symbols  of  the  Church.  The 
exterior  of  this  majestic  cathedral  is  adorned  with  more 
than  30,000  statues  and  basso-relievos  (no  two  alike), 
all  of  which  were  designed  by  eminent  sculptors.  It  is 
only  from  the  roof  that  any  clear  conception  may  be 
gained  of  the  fretworks,  carvings,  scultpures,  and  pin- 
nacles. Nothing  less  than  a  visit  to  Milan  will  give 
any  idea  of  the  majesty,  grace,  and  beauty  of  the  ca- 
thedral, as  it  stands  apart  and  seems  a  temple  not  made 
with  hands. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  123 

Milan's  manufactories  and  monuments. 
From  the  roof  of  the  cathedral  may  be  seen  the 
prosperous  city  of  Milan,  with  its  pleasure-grounds, 
large  manufactories,  gems  in  medieval  and  modern 
architecture,  and  many  monuments  to  patriots  and 
heroes  of  Italy.  Miles  from  the  city  and  beyond  the 
fertile  plains  of  Lombardy  the  mountains  form  a  glori- 
ous company,  including  Mt.  Viso,  Mt.  Cenis,  Mt. 
Blanc,  Mt.  Rosa,  Jungfrau  and  other  celebrities  peer- 
ing into  the  heavens.  Milan,  the  ancient  city,  was  en- 
tirely destroyed  in  1162  by  Frederick  Barbarossa,  and 
afterwards  rebuilt  on  a  larger  scale.  Fine  flannels, 
silks,  and  satins  are  manufactured  here,  and  its  superior 
dairy  products  are  widely  known.  The  Arcade,  one 
of  the  finest  of  modern  structures,  is  well  adapted  for 
the  display  of  exquisite  fabrics  and  charming  fads. 
Every  one  saunters  through  its  glass-covered  arches  to 
linger  under  its  dome.  The  library  founded  by  Arch- 
bishop Federico  Borromeo  in  1 609  is  rich  in  rare  books 
and  manuscripts,  including  works  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  letters  of  St.  Carlo  Borromeo,  Galileo,  and 
Lucrezia  Borgia.  Near  the  cathedral  we  visited  the 
fine  monument  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  who  is  called  "a 
perfect  giant  in  every  branch  of  art  and  scientific 
knowledge,"  and  this  group  in  marble  is  noble  in  con- 
ception and  execution,  the  statue  of  the  great  da  Vinci 
being  the  central  and  loftiest  one  of  the  commanding 
figures.  A  monument  in  bronze,  by  the  famous  sculp- 
tor Grandi,  commemorates  the  terrible  "Five  Days' 
Battle"  and  the  victory  of  the  citizens  of  Milan  who 
wrested  their  city  from  the  Austrian  army  of  occupa- 


124  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

tlon.  One  of  the  old  landmarks  here  is  the  bell-tower 
erected  in  1272,  from  which  was  rung  the  knell  on  days 
of  public  executions;  it  sounded  the  curfew  after  twi- 
light, and  always  tolled  on  the  death  of  members  of  the 
powerful  Visconti  family  to  whom  this  city  owes  so 
much.  The  Simplon  Gate  was  intended  to  commemo- 
rate the  victories  of  Napoleon  I,  but  the  original  in- 
scriptions were  erased,  and  this  "Arch  of  Peace"  now 
records  the  liberty  and  independence  gained  in  1859. 
In  the  Foro  Bonaparte  the  statue  of  Garibaldi,  by 
Ettore  Ximenes,  is  conspicuous;  it  eulogizes  "this  sim- 
ple-minded, heroic  patriot  who  held  a  kingdom  in  his 
hand  and  retired  from  it  penniless."  A  splendid  monu- 
ment erected  in  1896,  on  June  24th,  the  anniversary 
of  the  Battle  of  Solferino,  is  dedicated  to  the  "Re- 
Galantuomo — Vittorio  Emanuele."  And  there  are 
many  other  monuments  and  museums  of  historical 
relics  we  should  see  but  for  lack  of  time. 

At  any  rate,  we  have  not  wasted  precious  time  here 
on  "relishes"  as  we  did  inadvertently  that  day  at  Ischia, 
the  most  beautiful  island  in  the  Bay  of  Naples.     Nor 

have  we  followed  the  example  of  Miss  H 's  party 

of  lively  American  girls  who  sampled  the  cakes  in 
every  confectionery.  They  missed  seeing  some  master- 
pieces in  bronze  and  granite,  but  say  they  know  Milan 
has  the  best  assortment  of  cakes  in  Europe. 

STRESA  ON  LAKE  MAGGIORE. 

July  20,  1908. 

A  short  railway  journey  from  Milan  brought  us 
to  Lake  Maggiore,  nearly  forty  miles  long  and  famous 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  125 

for  its  scenery.     As  we  steamed  around  the  curves  of 
the  lake  a  faultless  cyclorama  was  unfolded.     On  one 
side   terraced   vineyards,   rioting   in   prospect   of   glad 
vintage,   were  mirrored   in  clear  waters,   and   on   the 
other  side  of  us  lofty  mountains  heaved  into  the  depths. 
The  villages,  like  little  boats,  kept  close  to  the  shore ; 
castles  stood  on  the  heights,  and  above  these  an  occa- 
sional lone  monastery  marked   the  topmost  boundary 
of  hospitality.     Stresa  is  an  ideal  resting-place,  and  the 
weary  traveler   might   well   wish   Sunday   twice  pro- 
longed here.     Our  hotel  is  perched  upon  a  hill,  and 
right  well  does  it  deserve  to  be  called  "Beau  Sejour." 
We  look  down  upon  the  beautiful  Borromean  Islands, 
and  across  to  the  rioting  vineyards,  stately  castles,  and 
quiet  monastery  above.     Beyond  the  majestic  blue  Alps 
of  Italy  in  front  of  us  the  snow-capped  Alps  of  Switz- 
erland sit  supreme  and  commune  together  in  the  clouds. 
It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  the  glowing  tints  of 
the  setting   sun    faded   into   solemn   twilight.      Little 
lights  sprang  out  in  the  village  below  us,  the  three 
Graces  of  Lake  Maggiore  held  aloft  blazing  clusters 
like  the  Pleiades  brought  to  earth,  and  the  steady  flame 
on  the  mountain  height  avowed   the  Christian  com- 
passion of  the  keepers  of  the  lone  monastery  up  there. 
And  He  who  guides  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  in  their 
courses  encompassed  all  with  His  love. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  patter  of  raindrops  made 
the  call  for  breakfast  unnecessary.  Lake  Maggiore 
was  slightly  ruffled,  and  the  hurried  flight  of  the  sea- 
gulls portended  a  stormy  day.  At  breakfast  our  land- 
lord looked  out  and  said,  "More  snow  in  Switzerland," 


126  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

and  that  explained  the  wintry  blast  of  the  morning  as 
well  as  the  changed  aspect  of  the  mountains,  which 
now  seemed  much  nearer  to  us.  In  a  few  hours  the 
clouds  dispersed  and  Stresa  basked  in  glorious  sunlight. 
We  walked  through  the  hotel  gardens,  abloom  with 
gaudy  zinnias,  fine  hydrangeas,  and  lovely  roses.  We 
sat  awhile  under  the  great  palms,  fir  trees,  and  poplars 
of  the  little  park  and  talked  about  things  at  home  and 
in  foreign  lands.  We  came  to  the  conclusion  that  we 
could  guess  Italian  better  if  these  people  would  only 
call  things  and  places  by  their  names. 

"For  instance,"  said  Miss  J ,  "who  could  im- 
agine that  Firenze  means  Florence?" 

An  afternoon  walk  on  the  excellent  road  skirting 
the  lake  carried  us  past  a  succession  of  handsome  villas 
situated  on  the  hills  and  partly  concealed  by  hedges 
of  evergreens  and  flowers.  Italy's  flag  of  red,  white, 
and  green  was  in  evidence  now  and  then,  and  red, 
yellow,  white,  and  pink  begonias  enlivened  the  land- 
scape.    At  last  I  have  found  in  Italy  an  unfamiliar 

flower.      This  morning    Mrs.    B and    I   walked 

down  into  Stresa  and  entered  the  open  gates  of  a 
garden  presided  over  by  King  Humbert  in  bronze. 
Several  gardeners  looked  at  us  with  surprise,  but 
worked  quietly  on.  Presently  a  man  with  a  rake  in 
hand  rapidly  approached  us  and  solemnly  said:  "You 
are  not  permitted  to  enter."  We  thanked  him  and 
started  to  retrace  our  steps,  but,  his  duty  done,  he  gen- 
erously and  without  speaking  pointed  to  another  gate 
which  prolonged  our  walk  under  the  lofty  palms.  The 
unknown  shrub  in  the  pretty  garden  was  covered  with 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  127 

very  bright  blossoms  of  dark  red,  shading  out  to  pink, 
which  were  shaped  like  diminutive  callas.  With  a 
glance  at  alluring  shop  windows,  we  returned  to  our 
hotel  through  narrow  and  crooked  streets,  the  tall 
houses  almost  shutting  out  the  sunlight.  This  was  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  walk  of  the  day  before,  when 
we  passed  the  succession  of  handsome  villas  on  the  lake 
front.  A  woodyard  in  this  settlement  was  a  shanty 
filled  with  small  bundles  of  slender  switches;  and  a 
boy,  with  a  basket  almost  as  tall  as  himself  strapped 
to  his  back,  was  starting  out  to  deliver  a  load  of 
switches  for  firewood.  It  is  possible  that  these  twigs 
were  taken  from  mulberry  trees  in  leaf  to  feed  silk- 
worms, and  the  switches  were  then  saved  for  fuel. 
The  frugality  of  these  poor  people  is  evident  every- 
where, but  I  have  rarely  seen  repulsive  poverty.  No 
settlement  in  Italy  is  too  squalid  to  have  its  little 
shrine  with  a  flower  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child. 

In  the  little  railway  station  here  at  Stresa  the  slate 
giving  the  hours  for  the  arrival  and  departure  of 
trains  is  decorated  with  a  bouquet  of  roses  artistically 
made  with   pink  and  white  crayons. 

THE   BEST  WINE  OF  ITALY. 

The  sweet  Ostia  and  other  delicious,  sparkling 
wines  of  Italy  have  been  celebrated  in  song  and  story, 
but  the  true  delight  of  a  sojourn  in  this  land  of  sun- 
shine comes  not  through  the  vintage  of  the  wine-press. 
To  my  mind,  Italy's  love  of  the  beautiful  is  her  best 
wine,  and  through  it  the  spirit  of  man  is  refreshed  and 


128  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY 

exhilarated.  Stately  palms  and  pink  oleanders  sur- 
round the  courtyards  of  palaces;  violets  are  scattered 
along  the  pathway  of  peasants,  and  the  king's  highway 
is  edged  with  red  poppies.  There  is  music  in  Italy's 
laughter  and  divine  harmony  in  her  song.  Her  archi- 
tecture embodies  strength  and  loveliness,  and  her  very 
ruins  are  glorious.  He  who  runs  may  see  enough 
beauty  in  Italy  to  enrich  all  his  remaining  years.  And 
for  the  one  who  tarries  in  this  sunny  land  of  art  there 
is  the  delight  of  exultation  and  spiritual  exaltation. 
Everything  is  made  beautiful.  The  outer  walls  are 
ornamented,  and  the  inner  walls  are  resplendent  with 
the  handiwork  of  genius  guided  by  love.  Italy's  gate- 
ways are  artistic,  and  grim  facts  are  recorded  in  lines 
of  grace.  Her  sanctuaries  and  schools  are  adorned 
with  the  portraits  of  the  Christ  Child  in  sculpture  and 
painting,  and  we  are  often  reminded  "How  He  walked 
here,  the  shadow  of  Him  love,  the  speech  of  Him  soft 
music,  and  His  step  a  benediction." 

The  Madonna  was  painted  by  every  old  Italian 
master  who  aspired  to  portray  perfect  womanhood  and 
holy  motherhood,  and  he  usually  combined  the  beauties 
of  Grecian  and  Roman  physiognomy,  making  the  por- 
traits of  her  tender,  true,  and  beautiful.  Time  and 
again  they  have  recalled  to  us  lines  of  Sir  Edwin 
Arnold  from  "The  Light  of  the  World:" 

"Those  were  the  eyes — communing  with  the  skies; 
That  was  the  face — tender  and  true  and  pure; 
There  was  the  breast — beautiful,  sinless,  sweet ; 
This  was  the  frame — majestic,  maidenly ; 
And  these  the  soft,  strong  hands,  and  those  the  arms, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY  129 

And  those  the  knees — bent  daily  in  meek  prayer. 
Whereto  the  Eternal  Love  would  needs  commit 
The  flower  of  humankind  to  bud  and  blow." 

Some  one  has  said,  "In  Italian  painting  deep 
thought  and  poignant  passion  are  not  suffered  to  inter- 
rupt the  calm  unfolding  of  a  world  where  plastic 
beauty  reigns  supreme."  Thus  the  painted  scene  of 
cruel  martyrdom  is  made  beautiful  by  the  vision  of 
angels  beyond  the  clouds.  Yes,  these  paintings,  so  full 
of  aesthetic  charm,  are  of  untold  ethical  value.  It  is 
easy  to  believe  some  of  the  old  masters  "went  from 
prayers  to  painting  and  from  painting  to  prayers,"  for 
holy  aspiration  is  kindled  by  their  works  of  art.  It 
seems  to  me  that  no  traveler  through  Italy  can  fail  to 
gain  moral  strength  and  spiritual  uplift  from  the  paint- 
ings and  sculptures  which  embody  the  spirit  of  an  age 
of  self-sacrifice,  devotion,  and  adoration.  And  though 
the  ecstatic  faith  of  those  days  be  dimmed  by  ecclesi- 
asticism,  it  may  come  back,  for  Italy  never  forgets 

"The  earth  where  heroes  trod ; 
Where  sainted  martyrs  glorified 
In  death  th'  Incarnate  God." 


SWITZERLAND 

Through  Simplon  Tunnel  to  Martigny  —  A 
Drive  Across  the  Alps  —  The  Village,  the 
Valley,  and  the  Sea  of  Ice  —  From  Mt. 
Blanc  to  Jungfrau  —  Geneva  —  The  Castle 
of  Chillon  —  The  Forests  and  Lakes  of 
Switzerland  —  Interlaken  — Murren  — Lu- 
cerne AND  PlLATUS. 

SWITZERLAND  THE  ANCIENT  HELVETIA, 
NOW  A  MODEL  REPUBLIC. 

THROUGH  SIMPLON  TUNNEL  TO  MARTIGNY. 

July  21,  1908. 
As  we  entered  Switzerland  at  Domo  D'ossola  our 
twenty-six  suit-cases  were  passed  through  the  custom 
house  and  the  courteous  Swiss  officials  regarded  us  in 
a  friendly  light.  The  guards  wore  a  black  uniform 
trimmed  with  scarlet,  and  a  musical  bell  gave  the 
signal  for  our  train  to  start.  It  was  not  long  before 
we  changed  to  the  electric  train,  which  carried  us 
through  the  longest  tunnel  in  the  world,  under  the 
Simplon  Pass,  made  famous  by  the  victorious  march 
of  the  redoubtable  Napoleon  and  his  loyal  army  a  little 
more  than  a  century  ago.  Without  regard  to  number 
of  suit-cases  marked  with  "J>"  it  took  us  twenty-six 

130 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     131 

minutes  to  traverse  the  ten  miles  of  darkness,  but  there 
was  no  stifling  smoke,  and  the  double  railway  track 
was  reassuring.  We  were  glad  to  emerge  into  day- 
light and  again  looked  out  upon  rugged  old  Switzer- 
land, rock-ribbed  and  stern  featured,  with  bristling 
crags  overhead,  dangerous  precipices  below,  and  moun- 
tains all  around  us.  Serried  ranks  of  spruce  climbed 
the  steep  heights  and  were  now  and  again  broken  by 
great  scars  extending  from  the  top  to  the  base  of  moun- 
tain and  made  in  past  aeons  by  the  resistless  march  of 
avalanches  of  ice  and  rocks.  Humble  huts  on  moun- 
tain-sides could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  the  great 
boulders  strewn  by  titanic  forces  in  centuries  long 
gone.  The  glory  of  the  sun  was  often  obscured  by 
dark  clouds,  and  white  mist  clouds  floated  from  the 
valleys  below.  Impetuous  cascades  enlivened  the  som- 
ber landscape.  They  sang  gleefully  as  they  swirled 
and  dashed  against  rocks,  threw  foam  spray  on  the 
tree-tops,  and  plunged  over  precipices.  One  of  be- 
witching grace  took  five  leaps  in  his  headlong  race 
towards  the  sea. 

An  ancient  hospice,  afar  off,  brought  to  mind 
stories  of  the  rescue  of  daring  adventurers  by  the 
monks  and  their  St.  Bernard  dogs,  and  the  beckoning 
of  a  shining  peak,  yet  more  distant,  seemed  to  justify 
the  perilous  exploit  not  always  reasonable  for  men  to 
make. 

We  passed  through  several  pretty  towns  with 
modern  hotels,  picturesque  dwellings,  and  churches, 
and  followed  the  River  Rhone  for  miles  through  its 
fertile  valley.    The  little  farms  were  highly  cultivated 


132      LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

in  narrow  strips  of  potatoes,  turnips,  beets,  and  aspar- 
agus. A  wheat  field  the  size  of  a  carpet  was  an  appro- 
priate foreground  for  a  tiny  chalet  on  the  hillside,  and 
in  the  meadow  behind  it  two  cows  browsed  to  the 
music  of  their  tinkling  bells. 

The  day's  journey  ended  at  Martigny,  where  we 
were  ready  for  Swiss  cheese  and  whatever  else  might 
be  set  before  us  for  dinner.  We  knew  we  'd  certainly 
have  "poulardi"  or  "poulet" — and  chicken  called  by 
any  name  is  good. 

This  was  our  first  day  in  Switzerland,  the  an- 
cient Helvetia,  now  the  model  republic  of  the  Old 
World.  More  than  fifty  years  ago  Switzerland 
adopted  the  initiative  and  referendum  form  of  gov- 
ernment, and  her  people  have  ruled  themselves  so 
wisely  and  well,  its  adoption  is  commended  to  all 
republics.  Our  statesmen  say  we  might  gain  largely 
by  following  the  example  of  this  wise  little  country 
of  the  Alps. 

A    NIGHT    AT    MARTIGNY. 

We  found  Martigny,  an  old  and  interesting  Va- 
laisan  town  nestling  against  the  Alps  and  looking  out 
on  the  widest  part  of  the  Rhone  valley.  This  was 
once  the  Roman  town  Forum  Claudii,  and  many  his- 
torical inscriptions  on  walls,  bits  of  bronze  and  marble, 
and  pieces  of  money  have  been  unearthed  here.  After- 
wards it  became  an  ecclesiastical  town,  and  the  first 
eleven  Valasian  bishops  resided  here ;  then  later  it  be- 
came a  fief  of  the  House  of  Savoy.  Overlooking  the 
town,  on  a  rocky  spur,  still  stands  the  Batiaz  Castle, 
once    a    Roman    watch-tower,    and    then    the   bishops' 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND      133 

residence  until  the  thirteenth  century.  After  being 
dismantled  more  than  once  during  the  feudal  wars, 
this  castle  was  set  on  fire  by  a  Valasian  patriot  and 
partially  destroyed  in  15 15. 

The  valley  of  the  Rhone,  between  the  Bermese  and 
Pennine  Alps,  is  in  the  canton  Valais,  notable  for  its 
picturesque  and  superb  scenery.  And  there  are  still 
old  castles  and  crenelated  manor-houses  which  recall 
stirring  times  in  a  "tragical  and  passionate  history." 

The  floral  beauties  of  the  valley,  varied  in  form 
and  color,  extend  to  the  snowy  summits,  and  one 
Alpine  garden  in  this  region  boasts  of  a  million  flowers 
which  flourish  in  the  wide  range  of  latitude  existent 
here.  Our  hotel  was  guarded  by  a  lion,  sculptured 
over  the  gateway,  and  ivy  geraniums  with  a  profusion 
of  pink  blossoms  trailed  from  graceful  urns  on  the 
pillars  of  the  gate.  Pink  oleanders  in  full  bloom  and 
a  quaint  fountain  at  play  gave  distinction  to  the  garden. 

After  dinner  we  conversed  a  while  with  American 
tourists  who  had  driven  from  Chamonix  that  day  in 
a  cold  rain,  and  therefore  were  not  enthusiastic  over 
the  glories  of  the  Alps.  These  people  met  another 
party  of  Americans  going  on  to  Chamonix,  and  the 
young  man  who  would  n't  "be  bothered"  to  bring  an 
overcoat  shivered  in  the  one  borrowed  from  an  older 
and  wiser  man.  The  comfortable  sitting-room  of  the 
hotel  was  decorated  with  bright  pictures  of  home  life 
in  Switzerland,  the  prettiest  one  being  the  "Village 
Wedding."  Near  her  father  and  mother,  the  flower- 
bedecked  bride  and  the  groom  with  a  posey  fastened 
in  his  tall  hat,  worn  only  on  the  wedding-day,  wel- 


134      LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

corned  their  smiling  guests  on  the  village  green.  The 
old  pump-handle  was  entwined  with  garlands  of  leaves, 
and  little  boys  stood  near  the  arch  of  flowers  ready  to 
toss  nosegays  as  soon  as  the  solemn  ceremony  was 
ended.  In  imagination  we  heard  the  wedding  bells  of 
Switzerland  ring  across  the  valleys  and  from  Alpine 
heights  sweet  echoes  fell. 

The  homespun  counterpane  and  fine  crochetted 
loops  for  the  window  curtains  in  my  room  were  evi- 
dences of  thrifty  home-life  in  Switzerland  to-day,  and 
the  tall  brass  candlestick  had  been  fashioned  by  one 
with  hammer  in  hand.  That  night  I  slept  comfortably 
under  the  little  feather  bed  laid  across  the  homespun 
counterpane,  for  the  atmosphere  was  wintry.  The 
next  morning  I  was  waked  by  the  tintinnabulation 
of  bells,  and  I  looked  out  upon  a  new  world.  In  the 
little  garden  below  the  flowers  listened  to  the  hum 
of  bees  gathering  honey  from  cups  of  fragrant  dew. 
Mountains  towered  above  us,  and  the  loftiest  peaks 
glowed  in  the  sunlight.  In  sheltered  places  snow- 
drifts lay  undisturbed,  and  the  stately  pines  lifted  their 
heads  in  adoration  to  the  Creator  of  all  majesty  ;nd 
beauty. 

A  DRIVE  ACROSS  THE  ALPS. 

Soon  after  breakfast  to  the  accompaniment  of  tin- 
kling bells  we  started  from  Martigny  on  the  carriage 
drive  to  Chamonix,  and  as  our  horses  trotted  off  I 
recognized  the  mystical  music  of  the  early  morning. 
Our  carriage  drivers  were  intelligent  Swiss  guides  who 
might  have  given  us  much  pleasing  information  had 
we  known  their  language.     These  sturdy  descendants 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND      135 

of  the  ancient  Helvetians,  whose  deathless  valor  won 
immortal  glory,  know  and  love  the  Alpine  heights 
where  nature's  throbbing  heart  is  heard,  and  they 
pointed  out  distant  objects  of  natural  beauty  as  well 
as  places  of  historical  interest. 

The  business  section  of  Martigny  was  almost  de- 
serted, and  the  cats  asleep  in  the  windows  of  several 
shops  seemed  in  full  possession.  A  bright-looking  boy 
astride  a  hobby-horse  lent  semblance  of  animation  to 
the  stillness  of  the  morning.  In  a  little  while  we  met 
a  funeral  procession,  and  the  dullness  of  the  village 
became  its  aureola.  Business  had  been  suspended  to 
pay  homage  to  the  memory  of  one  beloved  by  her 
fellow-villagers.  There  was  no  hearse  nor  vehicle  of 
any  description,  but  respect  and  reverence  for  the  dead 
were  never  more  truly  manifest  than  in  this  lowly- 
spectacle.  Four  women  of  mature  and  toilful  life, 
clad  in  white  robes  with  hoods  and  carrying  black  hats, 
led  the  procession ;  they  were  professional  mourners — 
a  custom  in  European  countries.  Then  came  two 
priests,  the  first  bearing  a  large  black  wreath  and  the 
other  holding  aloft  the  sacred  cross,  symbol  of  ever- 
lasting love  and  undying  faith.  Six  strong  men  bore 
the  coffin,  which  was  followed  by  grief-stricken  men 
and  women  in  garments  of  black.  Our  guides  bowed 
uncovered  heads ;  the  sympathetic  bells  lost  their  merri- 
ment, and  the  touch  of  nature  that  "makes  the  whole 
world  kin"  was  heavy  upon  us  as  we  slowly  wended 
our  way  through  the  shabby  outskirts  of  the  village. 

Our  drive  across  the  Alps  baffles  description,  for 
beauty,  grandeur,  and  sublimity  dwelt  together,  and 


136      LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

heaven  and  earth  shadowed  God's  unutterable  glory. 
Upward  paths  led  through  grain-fields,  terraced  vine- 
yards, and  meadows  bedecked  with  scarlet  poppies, 
purple  asters,  and  dainty  bluebells;  and  we  passed 
through  hanging  gardens  abloom  with  daisies,  dande- 
lions, and  royal  heart's-ease.  We  entered  the  evergreen 
forests  of  pine  and  larch  trees,  and  breathed  balsamic 
incense  as  it  rose  to  the  skies.  At  every  turn,  for  miles 
and  miles,  we  saw  the  old  Roman  tower  near  Mar- 
tigny,  and  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  finally  looked  like 
a  garden  threaded  by  a  strip  of  silver  sheen.  We 
passed  houses  that  had  seemed  to  be  in  the  clouds, 
their  roofs  weighted  with  heavy  rocks  to  keep  them 
from  being  blown  away  by  wintry  winds.  Again  we 
looked  up  and  said  the  people  surely  never  come  down 
after  they  begin  life  up  on  those  inaccessible  heights. 
But  we  passed  beyond  and  found  houses  and  gardens 
straggling  up  to  the  top  of  the  Alps.  On  one  sunny 
eminence  a  little  chapel  memorialized  the  place  of 
blessing,  and  herdsmen  there  "praise  Him,  from  whom 
all  blessings  flow."  The  sheep-huts  and  cow-sheds 
were  deserted,  and  flocks  and  herds  were  grazing  in 
summer  pasturage  in  high  mountain  fastnesses.  One 
quaint  and  pretty  custom  in  some  of  these  valleys  is 
to  select  the  two  finest  cows  in  a  herd,  naming  one 
Queen  of  Milk  and  the  other  Queen  of  Horns,  and 
to  pay  special  honor  to  these  favorites  on  the  home- 
coming of  the  cows  in  the  autumnal  season.  Indeed, 
the  family  fireside  song,  the  "Ranz  des  V aches  (Re- 
turn of  the  Cows)  is  one  of  the  notable  and  best  loved 
airs  of  Switzerland;  military  bands  are  forbidden  to 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     137 

play  it  in  the  Swiss  regiments  of  foreign  armies  lest 
brave  soldiers  be  overcome  with  homesickness. 

At  times  on  our  drive,  as  during  the  day  before, 
the  brightness  of  the  sun  was  obscured ;  and  as  we  en- 
tered the  trailing  clouds  the  valleys  and  mountains 
below  were  submerged  in  a  turbulent  sea  of  white 
fog-mist.  The  Alps  became  grander  and  more  entranc- 
ing, and  through  far-off  vistas  the  snow-covered  domes 
appeared  to  crown  celestial  cities,  gloriously  beautiful. 
Then  the  mist  clouds  seemed  transformed  into  angelic 
hosts  worthy  to  guard  these  cities  of  purity  and  peace. 
We  soon  learned,  however,  that  our  celestial  cities 
were  in  reality  distant  glaciers  studded  with  crystals 
of  purest  ray. 

Our  guide  pointed  out  the  great  Saint  Bernard 
Pass,  which  was  traversed  by  Roman  armies,  by  the 
forces  of  Charlemagne,  and  by  the  armies  of  Napoleon 
on  his  way  to  Italy.  After  his  conquest  the  Emperor 
Napoleon  caused  military  roads  to  be  built  over  these 
passes,  which  were  used  until  the  mountains  were 
pierced  by  tunnels  for  the  railways  now  intersecting 
a  large  part  of  Switzerland.  The  great  Saint  Bernard 
and  the  little  Saint  Bernard  Pass,  said  to  have  been 
crossed  by  Hannibal,  were  named  for  the  Crusading 
Monk  who  established  hospices  for  the  entertainment 
of  adventurous  travelers,  many  of  whom  were  rescued 
by  the  monks  and  their  well-trained  St.  Bernard 
dogs. 

In  about  three  hours  we  reached  Forclaz  Pass,  the 
summit  of  our  drive,  where  we  rested  in  the  mountain 
lodge,  partaking  of  milk  and  fruit.  Views  of  the  never- 


138      LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

to-be-forgotten  and  indescribable  scenery  were  pur- 
chased, and  Miss  K selected  the  melodious  horn 

of  an  Alpine  goat  for  her  lively  little  brother  in  North 
Carolina. 

Tinkling  bells  soon  summoned  us  to  the  carriages, 
and  then  began  our  rapid  descent  which  was  almost 
terrifying  at  times,  although  our  guides  walked  along- 
side the  horses.  It  often  looked  as  though  the  dark 
mountains  were  closing  in  to  shove  us  into  the  seem- 
ingly bottomless  gorges  yawning  beneath  us.  The 
winding  road  clung  to  the  mountain  side,  and  as  we 
looked  into  deep  abysses  our  wonder  and  joy  were 
stricken  with  awe.  Torrents  from  the  glaciers  hol- 
lowed out  these  Dantean  chasms  in  the  masses  of 
protogine  connecting  or  forming  a  part  of  the  moun- 
tains, and  even  now  dark  waters  lurked  in  their  mys- 
terious depths.  Doubtless  we  passed  along  dangerous 
places  in  our  ascent,  but  it  was  only  when  we  de- 
scended to  lower  levels  that  danger  seemed  to  beset 
our  pathway.  At  one  point  the  sloping  pine  forest 
across  the  chasm  seemed  appropriate  for  the  last  rest- 
ing-place of  pilgrims  and  prophets  of  old,  with  massive 
moss-covered  bowlders  for  grave-stones.  In  our  own 
sunny  Colorado  I  thought  I  saw  nature's  sleeping- 
chamber  for  her  poets,  and  this  rugged,  silent  slope 
was  not  less  beautiful,  and  far  more  sublime. 

As  we  crept  through  a  rocky  defile  something  in 
old  Latin  books  about  showers  of  stones  being  hurled 
from  the  top  of  a  precipice  upon  the  army  of  invasion 
flitted  through  my  brain.  Once  more  I  regretted  that 
embryonic  gray  matter,  groping  after  grammar,  had 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND      139 

lost  much  of  the  sweep  and  cycle  of  heroic  deeds  and 
historical  events  in  ancient  Helvetia. 

We  drove  through  the  skull  of  Tete-Noir  Pass,  for 
the  immense  black  head  thrust  across  the  roadway  is 
pierced  by  a  short  tunnel.  It  is  a  trick  of  these  sedate 
and  steady  drivers  to  crack  their  whips  in  this  tunnel, 
surprising  the  tourists  and  arousing  the  dwellers  of  the 
forests  above  and  around  it  with  sharp  reverberations. 
But  for  thick  wraps  we  might  have  suffered  in  the 
damp,  cold  atmosphere,  a  closed  carriage  being  out  of 
the  question  unless  sullen  skies  sent  rain  upon  us.  The 
sunny  skies  of  Italy  and  her  soft  atmosphere,  which 
enwraps  nature  in  lustrous  sheen  and  comforts  every 
living  creature,  were  sadly  missed. 

Once  we  left  the  carriages,  took  a  short  walk  and 
climbed  steps  to  a  rustic  pavilion  overlooking  the  chasm 
where  "confusion  worse  confounded"  is  enshrined  in 
the  heart  of  beauty.  This  deserted  playground  of  the 
Titans  has  become  the  laboratory  of  gnomes  and  the 
hiding-place  of  fairies.  Gladsome  vines  drape  the 
giant  bowlders  which  rest  upon  moss-covered  beds 
fringed  with  ferns.  Shrubs  and  trees  had  gained  foot- 
hold, and  through  the  weird  depths  below  a  purling 
stream  hastened  to  carry  tidings  from  snowy  summit 
to  sapphire  sea. 

Just  before  we  reached  Trient,  an  idyllic  mountain 
village,  we  saw  a  party  of  young  folks,  Germans  I 
think,  returning  from  a  jaunt  up  in  the  mountains. 
The  girls  wore  short  dresses  of  heavy  gray  flannel, 
and  their  bright  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  indicated  whole- 
some sport.    Two  of  them  ran  past  our  carriage,  per- 


140      LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

haps  as  a  ball  goes  down  a  hill,  though  they  succeeded 
in  stopping  at  the  hotel.  Possibly  they  were  spurred 
on  by  the  thought  that  these  Americans  might  stop  for 
refreshment  and  deplete  the  larder  of  their  hotel. 

Having  had  refreshment  at  the  summit  of  Forclaz 
Pass,  we  pursued  the  uneven  tenor  of  our  way  until 
we  reached  Chatelard,  where  the  bridge  across  the 
Eau-Noire  forms  the  Franco-Swiss  frontier.  The  car- 
riages were  dismissed  here,  the  obliging  Swiss  guides 
wishing  us  "bon  voyage"  as  they  started  back  to  Mar- 
tigny  carrying  our  thanks  and  good-will  with  them. 

The  hotel  at  Chatelard  was  almost  near  enough  to 
the  mountain  cliffs  for  us  to  reach  from  the  windows 
and  pluck  ferns  and  catch  the  pearly  drops  of  water 
trickling  through  their  fairy-like  fronds.  After  a 
hearty  luncheon  the  three  groups  of  our  party  were 
consolidated  into  one,  and  the  journey  was  resumed 
in  a  large,  heavy  vehicle,  a  diligence  for  French  terri- 
tory. About  two  hours  later  we  stopped  at  a  hamlet 
in  the  dark  forest  overshadowed  by  darker  mountains; 
and  near  the  weather-stained  cross  by  the  wayside  we 
drank  from  an  ever-flowing  fountain  fed  by  crystal 
torrents  from  the  glaciers. 

We  came  quite  unexpectedly  upon  our  first  nearby 
glacier.  The  forest  had  been  parted  by  a  vast  and 
weird  wonder  and  a  new  light  fell  upon  the  earth. 
For  an  instant  I  was  reminded  of  the  huge  pile  of  slag 
cast  from  smelting  furnaces  of  iron  works  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Virginia;  but  that  rough  mass  was  dull  and 
dismal,  while  to  my  eyes  this  rugged,  royal  pile  was 
as  blue  as  the  heavens,  though  lacking  "sweet  content." 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     141 

Had  nature's  prodigality  hurled  an  avalanche  of  sap- 
phires down  this  mountain-side?  On  nearer  approach 
we  knew  this  marvel  of  the  Alps  was  one  of  the  seven 
great  glaciers  of  the  valley  of  Chamonix,  and  we  were 
awed  and  silenced  by  its  majestic  mien.  In  fact  we 
talked  very  little  that  day,  for  we  were  engrossed  with 
nature  as  she  spread  before  us  "the  footsteps  of  truth 
and  the  vision  of  song." 

CHAMONIX 
The  Village,  the  Valley,  and  the  Sea  of  Ice. 

Chamonix,  July  22,  1908. 

The  shadows  of  evening  were  falling  as  we  entered 
Chamonix,  "the  Queen  of  Alpine  Resorts,"  and  the 
village  tucked  away  in  the  mountains  was  soon  ablaze 

with  electric  lights.     Mrs.  B and   Miss  H , 

who  came  from  Martigny  on  the  electric  railway, 
awaited  us  at  the  hotel,  and  they  were  as  enthusiastic 
over  their  quick  journey  as  we  were  over  the  leisurely 
drive  across  the  Alps.  The  dinner-hour  was  enlivened 
by  musicians  who  came  into  the  dining-room  and  sang 
selections  from  opera  with  fine  expression.  Between 
songs  the  leader  of  the  quartet  walked  around  the  ta- 
bles to  receive  contributions  of  coin.  These  were  not 
strolling  musicians  of  France,  but  professional  singers 
from  the  Casino  in  Chamonix.  The  drive  had  sharp- 
ened our  appetites  for  the  excellent  dinner,  and  the  de- 
licious honey  for  which  Chamonix  is  famous  was  not 
spared. 

We  were  pleased  to  overtake  here  the  friends  of 


142     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

our  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  the  charming  Caro- 
linians and  Virginians,  conducted  by  one  of  them  who 
is  surreptitiously  called  "St.  Sebastian"  by  the  girls  of 
the  party.  They  had  just  returned  from  the  celebrated 
glacier  Mer  de  Glace  and  gave  vivid  accounts  of  the 
difficulties  and  enjoyments  of  the  expedition.  They 
were  weary  in  the  flesh  and  seemed  somewhat  subdued 
in  spirit,  being  unaccustomed  to  mountain-climbing 
either  by  foot  or  by  mule-back,  and,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "St.  Sebastian,"  advised  me  not  to  take  the 
tiresome  jaunt.  Two  young  ladies  hobbled  in  and 
said  they  would  n't  recover  from  the  effects  of  that 
five-hours'  mule-ride  in  weeks.  With  all  these  argu- 
ments for  discretion,  my  name  was  dropped  from  the 
list  of  applicants  for  mules  needed  for  the  very  early 
morning  excursion  to  Montanvert.  Everybody  said  the 
trip  to  the  "Glacier  des  Bossons,"  selected  by  Dr.  and 

Mrs.  B ,  would  be  far  less  fatiguing  and  quite  as 

interesting,  and  I  tried  to  believe  them. 

The  little  shops  were  bright  and  attractive,  chiefly 
with  delicate  wood-carvings,  pictures,  and  the  Edel- 
weiss, the  white  flower  of  the  snow-region  of  the  Alps. 
We  bought  souvenir  flowers,  and  tiny  chalets  with  men 
and  women  to  match,  and  diminutive  domestic  and 
wild  animals  enough  to  establish  Swiss  settlements  in 
twenty-six  suit-cases.  Chamonix  is  the  home  of  the 
amethyst,  and  some  beautiful  sparkling  stones  were 
bought  at  reasonable  prices. 

Impenetrable  clouds  had  enwrapped  Mt.  Blanc  all 
day,  nor  did  we  glimpse  his  snow  palace  that  night. 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     143 

THE  VALE   OF  CHAMONIX. 

An  authentic  document,  signed  by  Pope  Urban  II 
and  bearing  the  seal  of  Aymon,  Count  of  Geneva,  cer- 
tifies that  the  valley  of  Chamonix,  which  is  3,400  feet 
above  the  sea-level,  was  ceded  to  the  Benedictine  monks 
in  1090.  So  little  was  known  of  this  region,  however, 
that  in  1741  the  explorers  Pocock  and  Windham,  of 
England,  came  with  a  well-armed  escort,  expecting  to 
find  a  barbarous  people.  Instead  of  this,  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  valley  were  peaceful,  and  proved  them- 
selves reliable  and  valuable  allies  in  exploration. 
Some  years  later,  through  art  and  science,  the  painter 
Bourrit  and  the  geologist  De  Saussure,  of  Geneva,  cre- 
ated a  world-wide  interest  in  the  natural  wonders  of 
this  now  famous  valley. 

We  are  told  Chamonix  means  "intrenched  camp," 
and  the  fortifications  here,  not  made  with  hands,  bear 
the  stamp  of  One  all-glorious  and  divine.  Many  of 
the  wonders  and  delights  of  our  drive  across  the  Alps 
are  repeated,  multiplied,  and  magnified  in  the  valley 
of  Chamonix.  Laughing  cascades  and  rushing  torrents 
meet  in  the  River  Arve,  and  their  songs  become  a 
sweet  choral.  The  Arve  unites  with  the  Arvieron, 
and  the  choral  bursts  into  psalmody.  The  seven  gla- 
ciers of  Chamonix,  marvelous  in  form  and  matchless 
in  beauty,  link  the  past  to  the  present  and  grasp  the 
mysterious  future.  They  seem  to  be  a  part  of  eternity. 
They  are  sapphire  gateways  into  aerial  regions,  never 
to  be  unlocked  by  mortal  man,  nor  may  he  enrich  him- 
self with  their  unnumbered  ornaments  of  pearls,  em- 
eralds, rubies,  and  diamonds  flashing  in  the  sunlight. 


144     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

Mountains  are  always  alluring ;  the  Alleghany  and 
Blue  Ridge  with  sunny  smile;  the  Rocky  Mountains 
despite  a  warning  frown;  the  Atlas  Mountains  laved 
by  the  billows  of  the  sea;  old  Vesuvius,  hiding  his 
scarred  brow  in  shimmering  cloud ;  the  Appenines  with 
olive  groves,  and  the  Alps,  crowned  with  celestial  cities. 
And  in  Chamonix  Valley,  mountains  gracious,  for- 
midable and  ferocious,  enticing,  entrancing,  and  en- 
rapturing, form  a  cylorama  bewildering,  bewitching, 
and  indescribable. 

Beyond  the  lovely  flower-starred  summits  are  the 
Aiguilles  piercing  the  clouds  with  their  glittering  gray 
points;  while,  soaring  above  all,  Mt.  Blanc  invites,  en- 
treats, and  commands  perilous  ascent.  It  is  not  strange 
that  De  Saussure,  the  geologist,  spent  years  trying  to 
reach  the  dome  of  the  granite  king's  snow-palace,  and 
only  desisted  to  prepare  for  further  attempts ;  nor  that 
Jacques  Balmat,  a  man  of  the  mountains,  undaunted 
by  hardship,  suffering,  and  failure,  never  desisted  until 
he  stood  upon  its  lonely  height.  A  year  later  he,  with 
seventeen  other  guides,  successfully  conducted  De  Saus- 
sure to  the  summit  of  Mt.  Blanc,  and  valuable  scien- 
tific observations  were  made  and  recorded  there. 

Two  monuments  in  Chamonix  commemorate  the 
daring  achievement  pi  these  aspiring  men.  One  re- 
cords the  first  ascent  of  Mt.  Blanc,  by  Jacques  Balmat 
in  August  1786;  and  the  sculptured  "Scholar  and 
Guide"  who  "conquered"  Mt.  Blanc  in  1787,  are 
heroic  statues  of  De  Saussure  and  Balmat.  This  mon- 
ument was  peculiarly  interesting  to  Rev.  Dr.  K , 

because  his  wife's  ancestors  were  closely  related  to  the 


I  'nil  I  <>\    (  lASTl  1- 


I    ike  I  ■■iii-iii  lies  by  (hi  I  Ion's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  tK-i>tli  below 

Its  mass)   waters  meet  and  How." 

— Byron. 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     145 

eminent  geologist  and  physician,  Horace  Benedict  de 
Saussure.  Jacques  Balmat  was  rewarded  by  the  King 
of  Sardinia,  and  "Mt.  Blanc"  was  added  to  the  sur- 
name of  this  dauntless  and  devoted  guide  who,  besides 
aiding  in  scientific  exploration,  saved  several  lives  at 
the  peril  of  his  own. 

The  number  of  adventurous  tourists  has  increased 
year  by  year  until  as  many  as  two  hundred  in  a  sea- 
son now  view  the  prospect  from  the  observatory  erected 
on  Mt.  Blanc  in  1890  by  the  scientist  M.  J.  Vallot. 

The  French  Alpine  Club  of  Chamonix  fosters  love 
and  reverence  for  Nature's  stronghold,  and  has  done 
much  to  lessen  the  dangers  of  climbing  inaccessible  and 
dangerous  peaks.  Neatly  framed  placards  in  the  hotels 
request  all  visitors  to  contribute  to  the  municipal  fund 
for  the  improvement  of  roads  and  the  preservation  of 
the  beauties  of  the  valley,  and  contributions  are  cheer- 
fully made  by  the  stranger  within  the  gates. 

THE  MULE-RIDE  TO  MOXTANVERT. 

After  all  I  went  to  Montanvert  and  saw  Mer  de 
Glace.  When  I  waked  that  morning  and  caught  sight 
of  Mt.  Blanc  the  thought  of  compromise  for  the  day 
was  onerous,  and  I  sought  "La  Conducteur"  for  con- 
sultation. A  boy  was  dispatched  across  the  meadows 
to  secure,  if  possible,  a  mule  and  have  him  saddled  for 
me  by  the  time  we  reached  the  peasant's  hut,  about  a 
mile  away.    The  party  was  ready  to  start,  but  friends 

came  to  my  rescue.     Miss  K ,  of  Virginia,  who 

kindly  supplied  the  black  silk  waist  in  Rome  that   I 
might  be  conventionally  attired  for  the  audience  of  the 
10 


146     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

pope,  bought  the  woolen  socks  and  alpenstock  for  me 
as  I  hurried  to  my  room  for  hat  and  cloak.  And  "St. 
Sebastian"  himself  brought  out  my  continental  break- 
fast, which  might  have  been  wrapped  in  an  envelope. 

I  started  off  with  "La  Conducteur,"   Misses  J , 

and   Mr.   S who   intended   to  walk  to   Montan- 

vert,  assuring  them  I  could  easily,  if  necessary,  find  my 
way  back  to  the  hotel  from  the  peasant's  hut.  But 
so  elated  was  I  by  the  sight  of  Mt.  Blanc  and  the 
anticipation  of  Mer  de  Glace,  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
should  have  returned  to  the  village.  In  fact,  I  thought 
one  who  had  walked  through  seven  miles  of  darkness 
and  blackness  in  Mammoth  Cave  might  climb  moun- 
tains indefinitely  in  this  exhilarating  atmosphere,  in- 
spirited by  the  glories  and  the  grandeur  of  the  Alps. 
So  I  crossed  the  flower-strewn  meadows  in  hopeful 
anticipation. 

The  view  of  "the  silent  sea  of  pines"  Coleridge 
delighted  in  greatly  charmed  us,  and  we  were  en- 
thralled by  Mt.  Blanc,  unrivaled  and  serene,  "in  the 
roar  of  his  mad  avalanches."  He,  too,  is  "heir  of  the 
sunset  and  herald  of  morn,"  and  he  deigned  to  cast 
aside  the  cloud-curtains  that  our  hearts  might  be  filled 
with  wonder  and  joy  that  morning. 

Happily  my  powers  of  endurance  were  not  tested, 
and  from  the  old  rail-fence  around  the  peasant's  hut 
I  mounted  the  tallest  mule  I  ever  saw.  He  looked 
like  a  giraffe,  sober-minded  and  self-possessed,  and 
took  his  place  near  the  head  of  the  procession  without 
consulting  me.  Eight  of  us  were  mounted,  and  in 
single  file  we  ascended  the  steep,   narrow,   and  often 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     147 

slippery  road,  winding  back  and  forth  up  the  terraced 
mountain-side,  the  muleteers  walking  on  the  outer  edge. 
Our  huge  saddles  had  little  iron  railings,  and  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  fall  off  backwards ;  a  comfort- 
ing reflection,  as  one  falling  might  knock  off  the  heads 
of  a  succession  of  friends  on  the  winding  terraces  be- 
low.    At  times  Mrs.  B 's  frisky  little  black  steed, 

Lena,  kicked  at  the  next  mule  in  the  procession,  but 
the  guide  was  watchful  and  no  harm  resulted. 

Once  five  or  six  goats  came  running  wildly  down 
the  steep  terraces  and  I  rather  expected  them  to  jump 
over  our  caravan.  I  remembered  how  at  old  Carroll- 
ton,  in  the  long  ago,  the  little  wagon  was  often  left 
hanging  on  the  fence  when  the  boy  driver  jumped 
out  and  his  goats  jumped  over;  and  there  was  no  guess- 
ing what  these  unfettered  mountain-goats  of  the  Alps 
might  do  in  a  gleeful  moment. 

About  half-way  up  to  Montanvert  we  stopped  for 
a  few  minutes'  rest,  and  I  ate  my  frugal  breakfast  un- 
der the  delicious  pines.  My  American  husband  would 
have  laughed  at  those  two  little  rolls,  buttered  and 
spread  with  mulberry  jam ;  but  they  were  good  and 
sufficient,  and  perhaps  never  again  shall  such  a  banquet- 
hall  be  mine.  The  air  was  redolent  with  the  perfume 
of  the  pines,  and  a  great  light  shone  in  the  vaulted 
dome.  Through  grand  arches  I  saw  the  green  valleys, 
flower-starred  heights,  gray  aiguilles,  snow-clad  peaks, 
and  ice-pinnacles  of  the  Alps  glistening  and  joyous  in 
the  light  of  a  glorious  morning. 

The  zigzag  road  wound  through  forests  of  noble 
pines  and  shining  larch  trees ;  and  ferns,  wild  strawber- 


148     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

ries,  forget-me-nots,  and  Alpine  roses  were  scattered 
along  the  way.  We  met  groups  of  tourists  coming 
down  the  mountains,  most  of  them  walking,  who 
looked  at  us  with  some  curiosity  and  kindliness  as  well. 
A  large  party  of  boys  with  their  conductor  rested  by 
the  roadside,  and  their  bouquets  of  wild  flowers  showed 
pleasure  in  botany,  though  geology  may  have  prompted 
their  expedition.  It  was  good  to  look  into  their  bright 
faces  and  to  wish  for  the  boys'  attainment  of  high 
ideals.  Doctors  of  the  philosophy  of  life  say  "nothing 
human  is  alien  to  us,"  and  the  realization  of  this  truth 
comes  forcibly  in  a  strange  land  and  among  foreign 
peoples. 

We  saw  men  and  teams  at  work  on  the  electric 
railway,  which  will  be  in  operation  before  long,  and 
will  shorten  the  trip  to  Montanvert.  And  then  tour- 
ists to  Chamonix  may  allot  one  half  day  to  the  village, 
the  valley,  and  the  sea  of  ice,  and  maybe  they  '11  not 
see  Mt.  Blanc  at  all,  for  he  often  hides  his  face  in 
impenetrable  clouds  for  hours  at  a  time.  That  will 
be  an  easy  trip,  but  not  half  so  interesting  as  by  mule- 
back  up  the  terraced  mountains,  through  the  "silent 
sea  of  pines,"  close  under  larch  trees,  and  among  rocks 
and  ferns,  brightened  in  sunny  places  with  Alpine  roses 
and  blue   forget-me-nots. 

The  pedestrians  of  our  party  kept  pace  with  us, 
and  sometimes  passed  us  by  short  cuts  across  the  moun- 
tain terraces.  Every  turn  in  the  winding  pathway  re- 
vealed new  beauty  and  grandeur,  and  in  two  and  a 
half  short  hours  we  reached  Montanvert. 

The  hotel  there  is  surrounded  by  giant  rocks,  and 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     149 

it  overlooks  the  fathomless  gorge  cut  by  Mer  de  Glace, 
the  most  celebrated  glacier  of  the  Alps.  Nearby  moun- 
tains, bright  with  verdure,  and  those  farther  off  cov- 
ered with  snow,  gleamed  in  the  sunlight,  while  yonder 
sparkled  cascades  from  azure  heights. 

THE    WALK    FROM    MONTANVERT    TO    MER    DE    GLACE. 

In  the  midst  of  this  romantic  scenery  we  soberly 
pulled  woolen  socks  over  our  shoes,  and,  aided  by  alpen- 
stocks and  guides,  rapidly  descended  a  rocky  path  and 
climbed  down  slippery  and  steep  places  until  we  stood 
by  the  celebrated  Mer  de  Glace,  a  veritable  sea  of  ice. 
At  the  foot  of  the  precipitous  embankment  two  of  our 
ladies  seated  themselves  on  a  towering  rock  and  re- 
mained there  in  safety.  It  was  my  intention  only  to 
step  out  on  the  edge  of  the  glacier ;  but  with  the  kindly 

assistance  of  our  obliging  conductor  and  Mr.  S 

I  went  half  across  it.  Then,  at  my  request,  they  went 
on  to  join  the  friends  ahead  of  us,  thoughtfully  and 
kindly  spreading  a  coat  to  make  a  comfortable  resting- 
place  for  me.  I  was  not  cold  sitting  there  because  the 
glacier  throws  back  the  heat  of  the  rays  of  the  summer 
sun,  warming  the  atmosphere.  Nor  was  I  afraid  to 
be  left  alone,  as  the  friends  and  guides  would  be  in 
sight  even  though  they  crossed  the  turbulent-looking 
sea  of  ice. 

And  again,  unexpected  good  fortune  was  mine,  for 
a  splendid  St.  Bernard  dog  had  followed  us  from  the 
hotel,  and  there  he  was  lying  at  my  back  unobtru- 
sively, but  as  surely  guarding  me  as  ever  human  friend 
watched  over  another.     Nobody  sent  him  or  knew  he 


150     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

had  followed  us  on  the  glacier ;  but  with  instinct  akin 
to  reason  and  faithful  to  his  mission  in  life,  he  had 
come  to  aid,  if  need  be,  the  lonely  traveler.  We,  St. 
Bernard  and  I,  were  very  near  the  beaten  pathway,  and 
a  party  of  English  people  crossing  over  stopped  to 
admire  him  and  to  congratulate  me,  for  they  thought 
the  splendid  dog  was  my  pet.  It  was  good  to  hear  the 
mother-tongue  in  which  cordial  greetings  were  ex- 
changed, and  to  be  invited  by  them  to  stop  in  Liver- 
pool before  sailing  homeward. 

You  must  understand  this  "crossing  over"  the  gla- 
cier means  climbing  over  great  boulders  of  ice  covered 
with  snow,  and  up  and  down  and  around  slippery 
places;  and  although  little  steps  are  cut  along  in  the 
ice,  utmost  caution  in  the  use  of  the  alpenstock,  with 
its  metal  tip,  is  necessary  in  this  strange  journeying 
across  the  frozen  sea.  The  guides  wear  spike-nailed 
shoes,  and,  of  course,  tourists  usually  follow  beaten 
paths,  only  the  most  ventursome  risking  places  known 
to  be  dangerous.  There  are  tremendous  crevasses  into 
which  an  unwary  or  even  the  most  cautious  man  may 
fall,  never  to  regain  earthly  foothold,  possibly  to  be 
found  a  half  century  later  in  the  sepulcher  of  ice. 

The  glacier  is  a  river,  or  sea  of  ice,  filling  the 
space  between  two  mountains,  beginning  at  their  sum- 
mit, and  moving  stealthily  and  steadily,  though  imper- 
ceptibly, down  towards  the  valley.  There  is  a  con- 
stant melting  in  its  abyssmal  depths;  but  the  winter 
adds  more  ice  than  is  melted  by  the  summer  solstice, 
and  this  glacier  may  see  the  end  of  the  world. 

This  wonderful  and  mysterious  Mer  de  Glace  was 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     151 

a  revelation.  I  seemed  never  to  have  heard  of  a  glacier 
before,  and  I  despair  of  giving  you  the  faintest  idea 
of  how  this  one  looks.  In  fact  I  suspect  it  never  looks 
the  same  to  any  two  people;  and  perhaps  one  alone 
and  at  rest  gains  a  view  of  the  mighty  monster  never 
to  be  obtained  when  precautions  for  safety  in  climbing 
across  it  are  of  prime  importance.  To  me  it  was  ter- 
rific and  appalling  in  its  awful  grandeur  and  sublimity. 
It  looked  like  a  great  torrential  sea  frozen  at  the  in- 
stant its  tumultuous  waves  threatened  the  destruction 
of  the  valley  below.  It  seemed  to  represent  the  im- 
mutable laws  of  God  and  His  eternal  justice.  I  won- 
dered if  in  all  these  years  of  God's  love  and  mercy 
I  had  failed  to  consider  His  just  and  mighty  wrath. 
The  great  glacier  was  silent  and  cold,  yet  its  message 
thundered  in  my  ears. 

With  its  huge  and  irregular  blocks  of  snow-covered 
ice,  the  glacier  close  at  hand  spells  isolation,  desolation, 
destruction,  and  annihilation.  Pearly  raindrops,  crys- 
tal snow  Hakes,  shining  ice-floes  had  become  bowlders, 
pyramids,  and  hills  of  ice,  now  welded  together  by 
freezing  blasts  from  the  caverns  of  the  storm-king. 
This  terrible  sea  of  ice  is  far  more  desolate-looking 
than  the  top  of  Pike's  Peak ;  for  among  the  millions  of 
stones  up  there,  tender,  blue-eyed,  forget-me-nots  are 
found,  while  no  living  thing  could  exist  here  in  caves 
of  ice  and  on  fathomless  snowdrifts. 

In  this  place  of  sublimest  desolation  the  St.  Ber- 
nard, my  sympathetic  friend  and  protector,  never 
stirred  from  my  side,  and  I  was  not  in  the  slightest 
danger.    But  the  ethereal  splendor  of  my  celestial  cities 


152     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

was  not  here,  and  my  sapphire  gateways  had  been  de- 
stroyed. Nature,  in  implacable  mood,  had  overthrown 
the  domes  and  towers,  the  turrets  and  minarets  of  ala- 
baster, and  had  scattered  them  among  the  ruins  along 
this  disastrous  highway.  Here  was  anarchy  ending  in 
chaos.  The  Chinese  conception  of  Hades  might  have 
originated  here.  Nature,  pitiless  and  unrelenting, 
seemed  symbolic  of  law  untouched  by  love.  It  was 
typical  of  life  unredeemed,  and  without  the  hope  of  a 
Messiah  to  come. 

Yet  the  sun  was  shining  above  us,  blue  skies  encom- 
passed the  earth,  and  the  sea  of  ice  had  its  metes  and 
bounds.  The  promises  of  God  are  immutable  as  His 
laws,  and  to  His  believing  children  the  Messiah  had" 
already  come. 

A  guide  conducted  me  safely  back  to  the  towering 
rocks,  and  assisted  me  up  the  steep  and  slippery  path 
to  the  hotel.  The  faithful  St.  Bernard  dog  followed 
a  part  of  the  way,  and  then  mysteriously  disappeared, 
possibly  going  to  comfort  another  stranger  in  a  strange 
land.  We  had  mounted  our  mules  and  were  starting 
down  the  terraced  mountain-side  when  a  man  was 
brought  up  in  a  chair-litter  borne  by  four  men  and  ac- 
companied by  several  others.  This  unusual  sight  fright- 
ened  "Signora  B V   mule,   but  two  men  jerked 

him  forward  as  he  threatened  to  back  off  the  edge  of 
the  precipice.  We  leaned  heavily  against  the  saddle 
railings  and  came  down  the  steep  grades  of  the  zigzag 
path  without  accident  and  in  comparative  comfort. 
We  reached  the  Hotel  Victoria  about  3  o'clock  as 
hungry  as  those  Germans  looked  when  they  ran  past 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     153 

our  carriages  at  Trient.  We  were  tired  in  the  flesh, 
and  may  have  been  subdued  in  spirit  as  by  a  service 
in  the  sanctuary.  To  some  of  us  the  Mer  de  Glace 
was  a  vast  and  solemn  cathedral,  and  the  Spirit  of  the 
Most  High  dwelt  there. 

FROM   MT.   BLANC  TO  JUNGFRAU. 

July  24,   1908. 

We  had  a  perfect  day  for  our  journey  from  Cha- 
monix  to  Geneva.  The  atmosphere  was  crisp  that 
morning,  and  the  valley  of  Chamonix  never  was  love- 
lier nor  more  enchanting.  Again  the  cloud-curtains 
were  parted,  and  Mt.  Blanc  filled  the  valley  with  his 
presence  and  set  us  to  singing  anthems  of  praise.  The 
village  and  the  valley  almost  adored  him,  and  the  hills 
and  mountains  lifted  up  their  heads  as  he  magnified  the 
beauties  and  wonders  of  earth  and  the  skies  above. 

We  left  Chamonix  soon  after  our  breakfast  of 
coffee,  rolls,  and  honey,  and  reached  Geneva  in  time 
for  luncheon.  And  there  I  discovered  why  the  passing- 
of-the-cheese  is  a  solemn  ceremony.  Each  one  is  afraid 
of  getting  too  little  of  the  good,  and  too  much  of  the 
bad  cheese;  for  there  are  numerous  varieties.  The 
trip  to  Geneva  was  made  in  the  electric  cars,  and  we 
crossed  wide  chasms,  went  over  and  around  mountains, 
catching  glimpses  of  the  cloud-piercing  aiguilles  and 
the  shining  peaks  of  crystal.  We  descended  into  val- 
leys and  looked  across  sweet  meadows,  in  which  the 
peasants  raked  up  new-mown  hay,  and  into  little  vil- 
lages of  rural  Switzerland.  The  cottages  were  clus- 
tered together  and  the  air  of  friendliness  was  abroad. 


154     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

GENEVA,  A  CHARMING  CITY. 

We  found  Geneva,  the  beautiful  city  on  Lake  Ge- 
neva, a  place  of  many  attractions.  The  Rhone  River 
and  Lake  Geneva  unite  here,  and  the  bridges  in  tri- 
angles and  quadrangles  are  unique,  and  popular  places 
for  evening  promenades.  In  fact,  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  people  congregate  on  the  bridges  to  feed  the  swans 
and  watch  them  in  their  graceful  maneuvers  on  the 
lake.  We  are  told  Geneva  is  more  than  1,000  feet 
above  sea-level  and  has  nearly  120,000  inhabitants. 
There  are  many  large  and  handsome  hotels,  residences, 
and  business  houses,  from  seven  to  ten  stories  high,  and 
the  broad  avenues  are  shaded  with  sycamore  trees. 
The  shops  are  filled  with  fine  clocks,  watches,  and 
music-boxes,  many  of  which  are  quaint  in  design  and 
exquisite  in  workmanship.  We  heard  nothing  was 
cheap  in  Geneva,  but  a  tiny  watch  in  a  ball  of  crystal 
for  less  than  ten  dollars  seemed  very  reasonable ;  while 
a  lovely  little  clock,  suitable  for  a  desk,  priced  at  forty 
dollars,  was  not  at  all  cheap.  The  daintiest  vegetables 
I  ever  saw  were  here  in  the  confectionery  stores;  for 
the  little  baskets  of  tiny  potatoes,  carrots,  and  beets 
were  in  reality  delicious  candies. 

We  went  to  several  drug-stores  for  quinine,  but 
found  neither  pills  nor  capsules  of  the  bitter  stuff.  We 
had  to  content  ourselves  with  two-grain  quinine  loz- 
enges, about  the  size  of  a  dime  and  shaped  like  a  doll's 
sailor  hat.  These  fetching  lozenges  were  thirty  cents 
a  dozen;  so  even  the  semblance  of  headgear  is  dear 
over  here.  The  chaperon  again  bought  toilet  soap,  and 
rejoiced  aloud  in  her  possession.    We  exchanged  salu- 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     155 

tations  with  an  old  fruit-seller  on  the  street,  and  paid 
three  cents  each  for  apricots  and  twice  as  much  for 
peaches.  The  old  woman's  face  was  wrinkled  and 
sad,  but  her  black  dress  was  brightened  with  a  wide 
yellow  belt,  and  the  black  handkerchief  on  her  head 
was  embroidered  in  red  and  yellow  flowers. 

Passing  another  fruitstand,  the  chaperon  bought 
three  peaches  and  put  into  the  paper  bag  with  them 
the  three  she  already  possessed.  The  old  fruit-man 
promptly  charged  her  for  the  six  peaches,  and  in  the 
confusion  of  the  moment  she  laid  down  the  package  of 
soap  and  left  it  there. 

In  our  drive  through  the  city  the  old  Armory,  the 
Russian  Church,  handsome  new  theater,  Conservatory 
of  Music  and  Art,  schools,  and  other  public  buildings 
of  note  were  pointed  out.  The  Canton  of  Geneva  now 
devotes  one-third  of  its  budget  to  public  educational 
institutions,  and  doubtless  this  was  brought  to  pass 
through  the  initiative  and  referendum. 

We  went  into  the  cathedral  in  which  John  Calvin 
preached,  and  stood  under  the  high  pulpit  of  ancient 
days.  As  Calvin  wrote  and  preached,  he  not  only 
built  up  the  Presbyterian  Church,  but  developed  public 
instruction  and  elaborated  the  civil  and  sumptuary 
laws  for  Geneva.  Calvin  came  to  Geneva  in  1536, 
and  died  here  in  1564;  and  he  is  revered  as  patriot, 
statesman,  and  religious  teacher.  Already  plans  are 
made  to  celebrate  here  the  four  hundredth  anniversary 
of  his  birth,  July  IO,  1909. 

In  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Pierre  the  fine  marble 
statue   of   Duke    Henri   de   Rohan    recalled    the   time 


156     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

when  this  then  imperial  city  became  a  place  of  refuge 
for  persecuted  Protestants.  The  Gothic  Chapel  of  the 
Maccabees,  adorned  with  fine  stained-glass  windows, 
contains  interesting  relics  of  the  past  of  great  value 
to  that  ancient  and  honorable  body.  An  honored 
citizen  of  Geneva  to-day  is  Henri  Dunant,  the  founder 
of  the  International  Red  Cross  Society,  which  has  miti- 
gated the  horrors  of  battlefields  the  world  over. 
Through  Dunant's  influence  the  Swiss  Federal  Council 
called  an  international  conference  in  Geneva,  and  on 
August  8,  1864,  representatives  of  twelve  governments 
adopted  articles  of  agreement  "for  the  amelioration  of 
conditions  of  the  wounded  in  armies  in  the  field." 

After  dinner  we  crossed  the  lake  and  strolled 
through  a  pretty  park  ornamented  with  groups  of  statu- 
ary representing  historical  events.  In  the  twilight  the 
chimneys  of  the  houses  looked  odd  enough,  with  slant- 
ing stove-pipes  protruding;  it  was  easy  to  imagine  they 
were  the  crooked  legs  of  crooked  men  caught  fast  while 
trying  to  capture  the  city  by  seizing  its  very  hearth- 
stones. 

In  the  early  morning  I  counted  from  my  window 
fourteen  beautiful  swans  gracefully  riding  the  vivid 
blue  waters  of  Lake  Geneva.  Geneva,  the  fair  city, 
was  flooded  with  rosy  light,  and  across  the  Rhone,  be- 
yond the  silent  pines,  many  mountains  clad  in  "ten- 
derest  purple  of  distance"  looked  up  as  Mt.  Blanc 
caught  the  rising  sunlight  upon  his  glistening  dome. 
Sweet  place  of  refuge  for  the  oppressed,  birthplace  of 
philosophers,  and  forever  exalted  by  the  life  of  the  pa- 
triot Bonnivard,  we  would  delight  to  linger  in  Geneva. 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     157 

From  here  Mt.  Blanc  challenged  de  Saussure,  and 
he  went  forth  to  scale  the  granite  walls  and  enter  the 
monarch's  palace  of  eternal  snow.  Rousseau,  the  phi- 
losopher, was  born  in  Geneva,  but  at  last  his  attacks 
upon  Christianity  closed  her  gates  upon  him.  Near 
here  is  the  beautiful  place  where  Voltaire  once  dwelt, 
and  on  the  island  stood  the  Episcopal  Castle  seized  and 
occupied  by  the  Count  of  Savoy.  Not  far  off  in  the 
lovely  gardens  of  a  pretty  chateau  is  the  last  resting- 
place  of  the  brilliant  Madame  de  Stael,  who  was  buried 
beside  the  grave  of  her  illustrious  father,  M.  Necker, 
chancellor  of  the  exchequer  under  Louis  XVI. 

A  young  lady  in  the  hotel — an  American,  of  course 
— advised  us  to  buy  a  conversation  book  and  learn 
more  French  phrases.  'T  was  good  advice,  to  be  sure; 
but  who  could  settle  down  to  dull  lessons  in  such  sur- 
roundings, and  with  Lac  Lehman  at  her  feet?  I 
did  n't  tell  her  that  several  of  our  party  already  pos- 
sessed conversation  books,  and  what  progress  had  been 
made  in  French  by  the  lawyer. 

At  8.30  on  Friday  morning  we  sailed  from  Geneva 
for  Montreux  to  music  by  the  band  on  the  steamer. 
The  harbor  of  Lake  Geneva  was  enlivened  by  many 
little  boats,  and  a  few  larger  ones  were  decorated  with 
the  flags  of  Switzerland  and  France.  Geneva  boasts 
of  her  supply  of  purest  water,  and  the  ceaseless  play 
of  the  remarkable  fountain  in  the  lake  is  the  continu- 
ation of  merriment  begun  by  cascades  on  distant  moun- 
tain heights.  The  picturesque  lighthouse  may  some- 
times look  out  upon  troubled  waters,  but  we  had 
smooth  sailing  as  the  incomparable  landscape  unfolded 


158     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

before  us.  We  had  the  enrapturing  Alps  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  the  beautiful  plain  of  Geneva.  We 
passed  a  succession  of  villages  and  touched  at  Nyan, 
Vevey,  Clarens,  and  other  places  to  leave  or  take  on 
tourists.  After  our  lunch,  brought  from  Geneva  and 
supplemented  by  a  caterer  on  the  boat,  was  eaten  with 
relish  and  enjoyment,  the  artistic  lunch-basket  was 
presented  to  the  Old  Lady  with  a  speech,  and  she 
seemed  much  gratified.  She  afterwards  told  us  about 
the  effort  made  to  lose  the  basket,  which,  she  thought, 
might  prove  a  burdensome  souvenir.  She  dropped  it 
on  the  floor  and  went  to  the  other  end  of  the  boat  for 
a  change  of  scene.  When  she  came  back  somebody 
had  picked  up  the  basket,  but  only  to  lay  it  in  the  chair 
she  had  vacated. 

"People  are  occasionally  too  honest,"  she  said. 

At  one  place  hundreds  of  sea-gulls  poised  in  the 
air,  circled  around  our  boat,  and  skimmed  the  blue 
waters  as  they  picked  up  the  crumbs  scattered  from  the 
lunch-tables. 

THE  CASTLE  OF  SORROW. 

At  Montreux  we  left  the  boat  and  took  the  electric 
railway,  and  for  a  little  while  skirted  the  lake  on  the 
hills  above  it.  From  here  we  saw  the  Castle  of  Chillon, 
immortalized  in  poetry  and  history,  and  hallowed  by 
the  sufferings  and  martyrdom  of  reformers  and  pris- 
oners of  State.  The  old  dungeons  and  the  beam,  black 
with  age,  on  which  the  condemned  were  executed  may 
be  seen  to-day.  And  here  are  the  pillars  to  which  Bon- 
nivard,  the  patriot,  was  cruelly  chained ;  and  his  foot- 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND      159 

prints,  worn  in  the  stone  floor,  inspired  Byron  as  he 
wrote : 

"Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar ;  for  't  was  trod 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  trace, 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard.     May  none  those  marks  efface; 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God." 

In  Geneva  we  saw  a  monument  to  Bonnivard, 
whose  courage  and  virtues  made  him  "worthy  of  the 
best  age  of  ancient  freedom."  The  castle  is  situated 
between  Clarens  and  Villeneuve,  at  one  extremity  of 
Lake  Geneva.  A  stream  from  a  hill  behind  the  castle 
pours  its  torrent  against  the  walls  as  it  empties  into 
the  lake  several  hundred  feet  deep.  Not  far  from  the 
castle  is  a  very  small  island,  said  to  be  the  only  one 
in  Lake  Geneva  proper. 

IN   THE   FORESTS  OF  SWITZERLAND. 

Soon  we  had  left  the  tranquil  Lake  Geneva  with 
its  old  Castle  of  Sorrow,  and  were  almost  lost  in  the 
dark,  extensive  forests.  Centuries  ago  Switzerland  be- 
gan to  protect  her  woodlands,  and  the  far-reaching  and 
beneficent  results  of  this  wise  policy,  still  continued, 
are  apparent  to-day.  Now  Switzerland  forbids  the 
transmission  of  electricity  to  foreign  countries,  except 
upon  a  permit  granted  by  the  federal  council,  that  her 
natural  water-power  may  be  wisely  conserved. 

In  our  refreshing  ride  through  the  forests  we 
passed  very  near  secluded  homes  of  the  peasantry,  for 


160     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

the  modern  railway  has  encroached  upon  the  privacy 
of-  the  simple  life.  The  cozy  chalets,  with  roofs 
weighted  with  rocks,  many  small  windows  in  the  gable- 
end,  with  one  pane  of  glass  open,  gave  a  hint  of  wintry 
winds  in  the  Alps. 

On  this  bright  day  doors  stood  ajar,  and  once  we 
were  near  enough  to  get  a  hasty  glimpse  of  family-life 
in  these  altitudes.  The  young  mother  bent  over  the 
wooden  cradle  to  comfort  the  little  child  whose  slum- 
ber was  disturbed  by  the  passing  train.  The  door  of 
the  little  milk-dairy  in  the  yard  was  wide  open  and  we 
saw  its  shelves  stocked  with  rich  yellow  cheeses;  every 
one  of  the  right  sort,  we  fancied.  In  Switzerland 
special  cheeses  are  made  for  celebrations  of  Church  and 
State,  weddings,  funerals,  first-borns,  and  perhaps  for 
generations  to  come. 

In  many  places  what  seemed  to  be  vines  were  really 
trees  trained  to  cover  the  sides  of  the  dwelling-houses. 
Only  a  few  goats  and  cows  were  visible,  but  under 
every  cottage  a  comfortable  barn  awaited  the  return 
of  the  flocks  and  herds  from  the  high  pasturage  of  the 
summer  season. 

FROM  FORESTS  TO  LAKES. 

At  Spiez  we  left  our  train  for  the  steamer  to  Inter- 
laken,  and  walked  down  to  the  lake-shore,  half  a  mile 
away,  sending  the  twenty-six  suit-cases  by  the  trolley 
car.  We  passed  through  an  old-fashioned  garden  with 
tangled  vines,  charming  shrubbery,  and  masses  of 
blooming  plants.  Bright  hollyhocks,  brilliant  zinnias, 
and  flaming  poppies  held  forth  in  sunny  places,  while 
bluebells  and  purple  pansies  rested  in  the  shade. 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     161 

Our  sail  on  Lake  Thun  was  another  unimproved 
opportunity  to  study  the  conversation  book,  for  we 
were  fascinated  by  nature's  volume  of  ancient  lore. 
The  lake  was  shut  in  from  the  world,  and  the  moun- 
tains closed  after  us,  though  now  and  then  we  were 
welcomed  to  a  village  on  the  water's  edge.  Just  be- 
fore the  sun  disappeared  behind  the  mountains  the 
small  spot  of  gold  on  the  water  became  a  ladder  of 
fire,  and  then,  the  clouds  catching  the  glory  of  sunset, 
our  lake  became  an  opalescent  sea.  Nearby  mountains 
glowed  softly,  and  in  the  distance  Jungfrau,  the  vir- 
gin queen  of  the  mountains,  seemed  more  of  heaven 
than  of  earth. 

Twilight  had  fallen  when  we  steamed  into  the 
canal  which  connects  Lake  Thun  and  Lake  Brienze, 
between  which  Interlaken  stands,  and  scarcely  a  sound 
was  heard  except  from  the  rooks  roosting  in  the  trees 
along  the  banks.  But  the  lonesomeness  of  the  canal, 
with  the  scolding  of  the  rooks,  only  heightened  vivid 
memories  of  the  miracle  of  sunset  in  an  opalescent  sea 
and  the  transfiguration  of  Jungfrau,  the  virgin  queen 
of  the  Alps. 

July  25th. 

THE  VILLAGE   BETWEEN   LAKES. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  we  arrived  at  Interlaken 
last  evening,  and  this  famous  summer  resort  between 
Lake  Thun  and  Lake  Brienze  seemed  in  a  merry  mood. 
People  were  congregated  in  the  stores  and  hotels,  and 
music  was  heard  on  every  side.  Singers  in  picturesque 
costume,  accompanied  by  good  performers  on  stringed 
U 


162     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

instruments,  made  the  night  melodious.  Switzerland 
jumped  from  tallow-candles  and  flickering  pine-cones 
to  electroliers,  and  Interlaken  and  other  villages  are 
ablaze  with  electricity  as  the  hum  of  business  and  pleas- 
ure is  heard  far  in  the  night. 

Our  restful-looking  hotel  is  surrounded  with  trees 
and  pretty  gardens;  its  handsome  hall  and  stairway 
are  decorated  with  many  palms.  Dainty  little  ferns 
in  jars  of  white  basket-china  graced  the  dinner-table 
last  evening ;  the  yellow  draperies  and  large  mirrors  be- 
tween the  windows  adding  to  the  handsome  appearance 
of  the  dining-room. 

The  parlor  is  handsomely  furnished  in  old  ma- 
hogany and  with  rose-colored  draperies  and  velvet  car- 
pet. The  chandelier  is  a  pretty  representation  of  a 
branch  of  mistletoe,  the  clusters  of  berries  beaming 
with  light ;  and  on  each  side  of  the  large  mantle-mirror 
rosy  light  falls  from  bunches  of  artistic  azaleas.  A 
few  choice  pieces  of  bric-a-brac  complete  this  charming 
room. 

Best  of  all,  we  found  letters  awaiting  us  here,  and 
we  soon  retired  to  our  rooms  to  re-read  the  news  from 
home.  In  my  room  pale  yellow  flowers  on  the  white 
walls,  the  cream-colored  curtains,  and  the  velvet  rug 
of  richer  hue,  scattered  over  with  delicate  foliage,  sug- 
gest springtime  with  golden  sunshine  and  gay  daffodils. 
The  upstairs  hall  is  decorated  with  pictures  of  pretty 
women  in  native  costume,  representing  Fribourg, 
Berne,  Zurich,  Lucerne,  Valais,  Tessin,  and  the  other 
cantons  of  Switzerland.  The  distinctive  features  of 
the  costumes  is  seen  in  the  cut  and  color  of  the  long 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     163 

apron,  and  the  style  and  shape  of  the  head-dress,  which 
ranges  from  the  big  round  band-box  effect  to  the  lace 
butterfly  ready  to  soar.  The  most  unique  costume  is 
that  of  the  hardy  women  of  Champery  who  find  a 
jacket  and  trousers  necessary  as  they  follow  the  herds 
and  flocks  over  rugged  and  jagged  pasturage. 

This  morning  our  breakfast  was  served  in  an  open 
pavilion  at  one  end  of  the  hotel,  three  sides  of  it  be- 
ing partially  enclosed  with  vines  and  blooming  plants. 
On  one  side  a  rocky  stream  separated  us  from  the 
mountain  cliffs ;  and  in  front  trees,  flowers,  and  charm- 
ing walks  were  inviting.  Tall  palms  and  fine  Rubra 
begonias  formed  effective  background  for  the  gayer 
parterres.  As  the  Misses  J and  I  breakfasted  to- 
gether under  the  shadow  of  mountain-cliffs,  a  little 
sparrow  hopped  around  our  table  and  found  crumbs 
to  his  liking.  Thus  our  sojourn  at  Interlaken  was  be- 
gun close  to  nature  and  her  little  ones.  Beyond  the 
mountains  of  bright  verdure,  distant  ones  are  snow- 
clad,  and  Jungfrau's  crystal  diadem  sparkles  in  the 
light  and  splendor  of  the  morning. 

EXCURSION'  TO  MURREN. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  we  started  on  an  ex- 
cursion to  the  village  of  Murren,  one  of  the  finest 
points  in  the  Bernese  Oberland  from  which  to  view  the 
snow-crowned  Jungfrau  and  her  lofty  attendants.  We 
went  by  the  mountain  railway  through  the  valley  of 
Lauterbrunnen,  with  its  clear  springs,  and  celebrated 
for  its  Staubbach  Falls,  more  than  1,000  feet  high. 
Then  for  two  miles  we  ascended  by  the  funicular  rail- 


164     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

way,  which  seemed  more  dangerous  than  our  old  in- 
clined railway  up  to  Lookout  Mountain,  in  Ten- 
nessee. 

All  the  way  up  the  mountain-slopes  were  covered 
with  wild  flowers;  and  there  were  unknown  beauties 
among  the  bluebells,  red  clovers,  white  and  yellow 
daisies,  gentian,  cyclamen,  and  the  Alpine  roses.  We 
saw  no  Edelweiss,  which  grows  above  the  timber  line 
and  near  the  eternal  snowfields. 

In  the  car  we  were  seated  near  an  old  Englishman 
who  kindly  pointed  out  unsurpassed  views  of  the  moun- 
tains and  the  valleys,  and  said  he  hoped  we  might  see 
the  unrivaled  floral  display  of  Mt.  Pilatus.  In  con- 
versation with  his  companion  he  remarked,  "That  man 
with  the  suit  of  canvas  and  uncomfortable-looking 
boots  on  was  rather  decent;"  and  as  he  evidently 
thought  as  well  of  us,  we  wondered  how  he  might 
describe  us  a  little  later. 

We  reached  Murren  at  noonday,  and  Jungfrau, 
the  Monch,  and  the  Eiger  Monch  were  awe-inspiring 
in  grace,  grimness,  and  grandeur.  These  were  robed 
in  white,  except  the  Black  Eiger,  of  lesser  proportion, 
who  was  nearer  and  protected  the  domain  of  his  su- 
periors. At  one  time  Jungfrau,  the  virgin  queen  of  the 
Alps,  enveloped  her  face  in  a  veil  of  mist,  and  her 
admirers  were  baffled. 

Our  luncheon,  brought  from  Interlaken  and  sup- 
plemented at  Murren,  was  served  on  a  high  balcony 
opposite  the  illustrious  mountain  peaks;  and,  but  for 
appetites  worthy  of  the  bracing  atmosphere,  we  might 
have  feasted  eyes  only.    With  due  ceremony  the  lunch- 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND      165 

basket  was  presented  to  Mrs.  C ,  who  packed  it 

full  of  souvenirs  that  call  for  careful  handling. 

The  comely  peasant  girl  who  waited  on  our  table 
wore  a  black  skirt  with  bodice  over  the  white  muslin 
waist,  and  a  long  apron  of  red  silk  fastened  with  rib- 
bon bows.  Her  filagree-silver  ornaments  for  the 
bodice,  with  silver  chains  dangling  from  the  shoulders, 
completed  the  picturesque  costume  of  the  peasant  girl 
of  the  Bernese  Alps;  they  are  valued  heirlooms  in  her 
family. 

The  little  village  Murren  consists  of  a  few  hotels 
for  the  accommodation  of  tourists,  and  little  shops  full 
of  curios,  carvings,  edelweiss  flowers,  postcards,  pic- 
tures, and  superior  soaps.  Again  the  chaperon  pur- 
chased soap,  and  we  congratulated  her.  The  sales- 
woman charged  her  a  franc  (twenty  cents)  for  Pear's 
soap,  "because  it  came  from  England  and  had  a  tariff;" 
and  for  Swiss  soap  she  asked  a  franc  "because  it  is 
better  than  the  English  make,"  she  said.  Handsome 
pink  and  purple  columbine  and  gorgeous  pansies  flour- 
ished in  the  gardens  on  this  lofty  eminence. 

Here  and  there  a  small  group  of  children  marked  a 
lacemaker's  stand,  and  from  spools  of  thread  little  girls 
were  industriously  making  edges  and  insertions  for  sale. 
In  the  shops  hand-carvings  in  wood  and  ivory  were 
charmingly  characteristic  of  the  country  and  the  people, 
and  we  bought  our  share  of  wild  goats,  fleet-footed 
chamois,  and  odd  little  gnomes  with  beard  almost  to 
their  feet. 

However,  the  most  artistic  and  realistic  wood  and 
ivory  carvings  are  in  the  shops  at  Interlaken,  which  we 


166     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

have  visited  several  times.  For  centuries  wood-carving 
has  been  a  source  of  revenue  for  the  rural  population 
of  Switzerland,  and  in  1825  it  became  an  organized 
industry  under  the  leadership  of  Christian  Fischer. 
The  people  in  the  Bernese  Oberland  excel  in  this  minor 
art,  but  skill  with  the  pen-knife  is  pretty  general  in 
Switzerland.  And  here  in  Interlaken  the  beautiful 
flowers  of  ivory  and  wood  are  carved  and  colored  so 
well  it  is  difficult  to  believe  they  are  not  real  blossoms. 

In  one  shop  we  saw  a  splendid  St.  Bernard  dog, 
his  leather  collar,  with  the  chain  attached,  and  a  rope 
tied  to  that;  all  carved  from  one  block  of  wood  and 
so  perfectly  colored  that  passers-by  thought  him  alive 
and  on  duty.  In  the  same  shop  the  wooden  busts  of 
an  old  man  and  his  wife  were  said  to  be  fine  likenesses 
of  an  aged  couple  well  known  in  Interlaken. 

Picture-frames,  clocks,  music-boxes,  chairs,  tables, 
toys,  and  all  sorts  of  things  were  carved  in  all  sorts 
of  ways.  A  little  doll,  half  an  inch  tall,  with  jointed 
arms  and  legs,  was  enticing,  .but  she  did  not  appear 
to  be  a  relation  of  old  Mary  Ann  Fisher,  whose  ar- 
ticulated wooden  family  I  have  sought  in  vain  so  far. 

A  fewT  unnecessary  articles  of  clothing  have  been 
thrown  aside,  that  a  chamois,  a  mule,  except  for  his 
trappings,  totally  unlike  my  giraffe  of  Chamonix,  a 
midget  milkmaid,  a  cuckoo  clock,  and  several  other 
bits  of  carving  might  be  added  to  the  Swiss  settlement 
in  my  suit-case.  Of  the  exquisitely  embroidered  hand- 
kerchiefs, waists,  and  robes  we  (chiefly  the  Bride-to-be) 
bought  not  a  few. 

As  usual  in  the  tourist  season,  the  brilliantly-lighted 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     167 

and  well-filled  shops  attracted  a  procession  of  people 
who  good-naturedly  jostled  one  another  at  times.  The 
Old  Lady  said  she  saw  the  devil  in  petticoats  here  one 
evening,  and  that  he,  or  rather  she,  spoke  English 
when  inviting  a  young  man  who  happened  to  be  near 
us  looking  in  the  windows,  to  a  den  of  infamy  in  Inter- 
laken.  The  evil  one  was  repulsed ;  but  is  it  not  time  for 
Catholics  and  Protestants  of  all  Christendom  to  work 
together  to  protect  their  young  people  from  shameless 
men  and  women  seeking  them  and  all  whom  they  may 
devour  ? 

Sunday,  July  26,  1908. 

Sunday  in  Interlaken  has  been  the  refreshing  day 
of  rest  needed  after  steady  sightseeing.  After  break- 
fast on  the  terrace  several  of  our  party  met  in  the 
writing-room,  and  the  flight  of  time  was  marked  by 
the  scratch  of  pens.  All  unmindful  were  we  of  spar- 
rows, palms,  lakes,  glaciers,  mountains,  and  the  ocean 
while  we  dwelt  in  old,  familiar  scenes.  As  we  scrib- 
bled and  talked,  by  turns,  a  small  boy,  not  of  America, 
tipped  into  the  room,  whispered  to  the  little  dog  in 
his  arms,  laid  the  glossy  pet  at  his  feet,  and  wrote  a 
letter  in  perfect  silence.  "Hereafter  we  will  remember 
the  etiquette  of  the  writing-room,"  said  the  Old  Lady 
for  us  all.  Of  all  the  Americans  in  the  hotel,  none  are 
more  charming  than  the  dozen  vivacious  Southern  girls, 
who  probably  tax  the  patience  of  their  agreeable  chap- 
eron now  and  then.  They  say  two  or  three  of  their 
number  can  faint  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  that 
no  day  lacks  its  excitement. 

Our  Sunday  afternoon  rest  was  broken  up  by  a 


168     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

large  company  of  young  people  of  Interlaken  assembled 
in  a  hall  near  the  hotel  for  the  weekly  singing-school. 
Their  voices  were  musical,  and  the  yodle-song  of  the 
Tyrolese  Alps  was  exhilarating.  In  fancy  we  caught 
sight  of  sleek  herds  hastening  down  mountain-side  to 
the  clarion  call  of  joyous  and  simple-hearted  youth  of 
Switzerland.  The  solitudes  and  sublimities  of  nature 
draw  men  closer  to  one  another,  and  I  should  like  to 
have  attended  service  in  the  ancient  Roman  Catholic 
monastery  of  Interlaken,  which  is  also  a  place  of  wor- 
ship for  Scotch  Presbyterians  and  French  and  English 
Protestants,  for  Americans  are  welcomed  there. 

LUCERNE  AND  MT.   PILATUS. 

July  28,   1908. 

We  left  Interlaken  Monday  morning  and  came  to 
Lucerne  by  the  lake  and  mountain  route,  and  again 
we  reveled  in  fine  views  of  the  varied  and  fascinating 
scenery  of  Switzerland.  The  lovely  lacelike  Geisbach 
Falls  takes  thirteen  leaps  in  the  headlong  race  to  the 
sea,  and  the  mountain  profiles  silhouetted  against  the 
blue  sky  are  of  manifold  charm.  All  roads  in  Switzer- 
land lead  through  mountains  whose  beauty  fadeth  not 
away. 

From  the  village  Brienze,  in  which  Christian 
Fischer  organized  the  wood-carving  industry  and  es- 
tablished a  school  for  teaching  it,  we  went  by  train 
up  very  steep  grades  and  through  the  Brunig  Pass, 
where  we  looked  down  upon  the  lake  of  emerald  re- 
flecting the  mountains  below  us;  then  to  blue  moun- 
tains beyond,  purple  ones  above  us,  and  glittering  white 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     169 

crags  afar  off.  In  a  lonely  spot  we  passed  a  shrine  with 
the  crucifix,  and  not  far  from  there  men  and  women 
climbed  through  a  terraced  cemetery  to  a  chapel  on 
the  mountain-side. 

In  Lucerne  we  were  cordially  welcomed  by  St.  Se- 
bastian's party,  who  had  preceded  us,  and  the  next 
morning  we  breakfasted  together  before  they  left  for 

Germany.     Miss  R ,  Miss  K ,  and  I  thought 

the  monumental  stove  of  white  porcelain  with  shining 
pipe  curved,  twisted,  and  contorted,  might  be  a  me- 
morial to  Adam  and  Eve  who  ate  imprudently,  and 
we  indulged  sparingly. 

Our  American  hats  are  beginning  to  look  travel- 
worn,  and  new  ones  have  been  purchased  here  by 
one  of  the  ladies  and  two  gentlemen  of  our  party; 
though  neither  of  them  selected  the  round  band-box 
or  the  butterfly  style  of  Switzerland.  My  hat  with 
elongated  brim  has  given  me  some  discomfort  in  the 
high-back  seats  of  the  railway  trains;  but  it  is  not 
wearing  out.  Durable  as  it  is,  and  despite  the  mil- 
liner's prophecy,  it  will  hardly  bear  the  scrutiny  of 
royalty. 

European  monarchs  take  summer  outings  like  the 
American  democracy,  and  they  little  dream  what  they 
miss  by  being  "out  of  town"  when  America  comes 
over. 

In  Lucerne  rough  and  rugged  old  Switzerland  is 
all  smiles.  We  no  longer  see  his  furrowed  brow,  nor 
the  scars  of  time  in  his  face.  Hoary  age  has  retired, 
arrayed  in  ermine,  and  youth  reigns  in  joyous  beauty. 
Formidable  mountains  are  all  around  us,  but  distant 


170     LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

enough  to  be  enchanting  and  entrancing,  making  Lu- 
cerne restful  to  all  who  seek  her.  The  Lake  of  Lu- 
cerne is  the  magician  of  the  morning,  and  he  multiplies 
the  glories  of  the  night.  Whether  sitting  on  the  green 
slopes  beside  it  or  sailing  on  its  glowing  waters,  the 
vision  of  a  beautiful  dream  unfolds  into  charming  re- 
ality. ' 

This  lake  of  the  four  forest  cantons  of  Switzerland 
revels  in  rare  environment.  Loveliness  and  sublimity 
are  mirrored  by  it  at  every  turn,  and  historical  associ- 
ations hang  around  it.  Pilatus  from  many  peaks  seems 
to  say:  "Behold,  how  pleasant  it  is  for  brethren  to 
dwell  together  in  unity." 

Long  ago  his  clustered  peaks  shadowed  forth  Swiss 
independence  won  by  unity  of  strength  and  brother- 
hood in  heroic  struggle.  The  men  of  the  four  forest 
cantons  were  brave  and  daring,  and  they  had  a  large 
share  in  the  victory  of  Sempach  in  1386.  And  on  a 
precipitous  cliff  of  rock  rising  from  Lake  Lucerne 
the  William  Tell  Chapel  commemorates  victory  over 
Austrian  tyrants,  whether  or  not  the  tradition  of  the 
daring  escape  from  Gessler  be  true. 

Righi,  some  miles  from  Lucerne  and  the  solitary 
sentinel  of  the  Alps,  stands  aloof  from  his  fellows ;  not. 
as  tall  as  many  of  them,  but  claiming  pre-eminence  for 
his  superb  views  of  the  lakes,  valleys,  and  innumerable 
mountains  of  this  fairest  region  of  Switzerland.  The 
railroad  which  leads  to  the  summit  of  Righi  was  the 
first  of  its  kind  built  in  this  country ;  it  is  similar  to 
the  cog-road  which  goes  up  to  Pike's  Peak  in  Colorado. 

The  Lake  of  Lucerne,  1,437  feet  above  sea-level, 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND     171 

covers  portions  of  four  valleys,  and  scientists  read  rec- 
ords of  several  geological  periods  in  the  formation  of 
the  mountains,  sharp-pointed,  cone-shaped,  round- 
topped,  and  pyramidal,  which  surround  it. 

In  her  twenty-two  cantons  Switzerland  has  many 
climates,  and  there  are  regions  of  olives,  grapes,  oaks, 
beeches,  pines,  and  firs  up  to  high  mountain  pastures, 
where  the  rhododendron  flourishes  near  snow-fields. 
Walnut  groves  and  cereals  abound  around  Lucerne, 
and  condensed  milk,  butter,  and  cheese  are  manufac- 
tured here  for  export. 

The  town  is  picturesque  with  its  old  covered 
bridges,  one  of  them  zigzagging  across  the  lake  by  way 
of  the  ancient  octagonal  tower,  called  Wasserthurm, 
is  said  to  have  been  a  lighthouse.  This  Old  Bridge 
is  decorated  with  paintings  representing  historical 
events  in  Switzerland,  and  of  necessity  men  of  every 
degree  learned  lessons  of  patriotism  in  the  olden  time. 
Even  now  this  rambling  old  wooden  structure,  of  four 
centuries  ago,  is  more  to  be  desired  on  a  hot  day  than 
Lucerne's  up-to-date  stone  bridges  glaring  in  the  sun- 
light. 

The  people  here  speak  German,  and  more  rarely 
English ;  and  what  we  do  not  understand  we  try  to 
guess.  Though  we  neither  understood  nor  guessed 
what  a  salesman  meant  when  he  said  the  picture  on 
a  postcard  of  three  men  standing  together,  bearing 
shields  and  a  cross,  "are  like  in  America."  Afterwards 
we  saw  a  large  picture  of  three  heroes,  with  other  men 
grouped  around  them,  and  learned  it  represented  the 
Confederation  of  Swiss  Cantons. 


172      LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND 

The  stores  here  are  filled  to  overflowing  with  furs, 
embroideries,  and  a  great  variety  of  things  admired  by 
women.  None  were  more  attractive  than  the  tiniest 
and  daintiest  carvings  in  ivory ;  and  the  Old  Lady,  be- 
ing of  domestic  turn  of  mind,  was  most  tempted  by 
chickens,  dogs,  and  furniture ;  the  right  size,  but  en- 
tirely too  fine  for  my  little  milkmaid  from  Interlaken 
who  travels  in  my  purse.  The  dolls  in  the  shops  wore 
Swiss  costumes,  but  were  inane  Americans. 

The  libraries  of  Lucerne  contain  a  complete  collec- 
tion of  historical  documents  of  Switzerland  from  the 
Middle  Ages,  upon  which  much  time  and  energy 
might  be  spent  profitably  by  students  of  the  history  of 
the  world. 

THE  LION  OF  LUCERNE. 

Lucerne's  greatest  work  of  art  is  not  in  a  museum 
of  treasures,  nor  a  gallery  of  paintings  and  sculpture 
by  the  old  masters;  but  it  is  out  of  doors,  chiseled  in 
the  side  of  a  great  rock,  and  people  come  from  the  ends 
of  the  earth  to  see  the  Lion  of  Lucerne,  by  Thorwals- 
den.  Doubtless,  for  many  people  association  adds  to 
the  grandeur  of  this  work  of  genius,  but  not  one  can 
look  upon  it  unmoved.  We  could  scarcely  look  at  it, 
and  yet  could  not  turn  away.  The  noble  beast  is  mor- 
tally wounded ;  but  in  the  agony  of  death  he  tries  to 
protect  the  shield  with  the  lilies  of  France,  upon  which 
he  is  dying. 

A  fine  conception  of  Thorwalsden  is  this  colossal 
monument  erected  by  the  French  Government  to  com- 
memorate   the    heroism    and    devotion    of    the    Swiss 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND       173 

Guards  who  fell  at  the  Tuillerfcs  In  1792,  defending 
King  Louis  XVI  of  France.  The  emotions  are  deeply 
stirred,  and  a  more  splendid  presentation  of  dignity  in 
defeat  and  devotion  in  death  I  have  not  seen  in  art. 

IMPERISHABLE  RECORDS. 

A  visit  to  the  Glacial  Garden  of  Lucerne  seemed 
to  promise  snow -hanks,  grottoes  of  ice,  and  cold  drinks 
for  the  summer  season ;  but  it  proved  to  be  a  geological 
garden,  paleozoic  and  prehistoric.  The  imprint  of 
plant-life,  the  footprints  of  glaciers,  and  the  records 
of  deep  waters  are  seen  here  in  tablets  of  stone.  These 
bowlders,  rounded  and  polished  by  the  passage  of  a 
glacier,  rocks  encrusted  with  tiny  shells,  stones  with 
intaglio  of  fern  and  palm-leaf,  tell  of  various  periods 
in  the  formation  of  the  world.  The  hieroglyphics  pen- 
ciled by  nature  have  been  deciphered  by  man,  and  from 
the  records  preserved  by  the  rocks  of  the  Alps,  Agassiz 
gave  the  world  his  glacial  theories. 

The  beauty  and  strength  of  Switzerland  are  im- 
mortal. The  one  exists,  not  in  her  celestial  cities,  with 
sapphire  gateways  and  dazzling  domes ;  but  in  her  spirit 
of  brotherhood :  the  other  lives,  not  in  her  "everlasting 
hills,"  which  have  charmed,  silenced,  and  enthralled 
us;  but  in  her  men  of  courage  and  devotion,  who  have 
inspired  generations  of  patriots. 


GERMANY 

Heidelberg  —  Bingen  and  Other  Cities  on  the 
Rhine  —  Cologne,  the  Cathedral  City. 

our  glimpse  of  germany. 

July  29,  1908. 

"Empires  had  fallen,  the  Greek  beautified  the  earth 
with  magic  art,  the  Roman  founded  his  colossal  and 
iron  despotism,"  while  the  German  was  still  content 
to  reign  over  beasts  of  the  forest,  study  nature,  and 
hear  her  voice  in  the  whispering  of  the  trees.  Yet 
Hume,  the  historian,  says,  "If  our  part  of  the  world 
maintain  sentiments  of  liberty,  honor,  equity,  and  valor 
superior  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  it  owes  these  advan- 
tages to  the  seeds  implanted  by  those  generous  barbar- 


ians." 


Through  English  ancestry  we  have  shared  this  fair 
heritage  and  recognize  our  indebtedness  to  these  liberty- 
loving  people.  Nevertheless,  American  feathers  were 
ruffled  as  we  entered  Germany,  for  at  Basle  we  had 
our  first  unpleasantness  with  the  customs  officials  of 
Europe. 

The  casual  inspection  of  our  twenty-six  suit-cases 
*  was  about  over  when  an  official  drew  forth  a  little 
package  of  Roman  sashes  from  the  shallow  depths  of 
Miss  J 's  belongings.  With  a  frown  of  disap- 
proval he  weighed  the  three  sashes  and  demanded  duty 

174 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  175 

on  them  (forty  cents,  or  one  hundred  and  sixty  pfen- 
nigs in  German  money)  ;  for  no  silk  may  enter  this 
country  free  of  duty.  The  most  sanguine  American 
tourist  nor  the  veriest  Micawber  of  Europe  could  hope 
to  establish  a  rival  industry  with  three  silk  sashes ;  and 
though  not  fluent  in  German,  we  were  slightly  indig- 
nant in  English.  Some  one  told  us  the  duty  collected 
on  the  three  sashes  could  be  recovered  if  the  transac- 
tion were  reported  to  higher  authorities;  but  our  time 
was  more  valuable  than  a  double-handful  of  German 
pfennigs,  and  we  tarried  not  at  Basle. 

At  stations  along  the  journey  Germans  spoke 
gruffly  to  one  another,  although  they  smiled  at  times. 
We  passed  through  broad,  well-tilled  fields  and  large 
manufacturing  districts,  and  saw  many  evidences  of 
agricultural  and  industrial  prosperity  which,  by  way 
of  contrast,  brought  to  mind  Jean  Paul  Richter's  dec- 
laration, "Providence  has  given  to  the  French  the  em- 
pire of  the  land,  to  the  English  that  of  the  sea,  to  the 
Germans  that  of — the  air."  Or  was  that  merely  Jean 
Paul's  prophecy  of  perfect  aviation  for  Germany, 
which  may  yet  come  through  Count  Zeppelin's  pa- 
tience, persistence,  and  perseverance?  Possibly,  but 
so  far  the  birdman  of  the  world  is  Mr.  Wilbur  Wright 
of  our  own  land  and  sky,  and  we  '11  try  to  hold  him 
up  to  that  distinction. 

HEIDELBERG,    OX    THE   RIVER    NECKAR. 

Twilight  had  fallen  when  we  arrived  at  Heidel- 
berg, and  in  the  drive  up  the  long,  steep  road  to  the 
Hotel  Bellcvue  we  saw  a  somber  city  straggling  to 


176  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

the  top  of  the  hill.  Students  from  Heidelberg  Uni- 
versity were  already  gathering  in  the  Stadt-garten,  a 
beer  garden  much  frequented  by  them;  and  we  heard 
snatches  of  lively  songs.  Later  in  the  evening  perhaps 
they  clashed  their  glasses  and  drank  to  their  sweet- 
hearts, or  united  in  singing  their  consecration  hymn: 

"Fatherland!  thou  land  of  story, 
To  the  altars  of  thy  glory 
Consecrate  us,  sword  in  hand." 

The  students  of  the  university  are  patriotic,  ever 
brave  in  the  defense  of  Germany,  and  this  hymn  is 
sung  with  great  fervor  and  clashing  of  beer-glasses. 

It  was  good  to  reach  our  hotel,  a  splendid  mansion 
of  old ;  and  the  dining-room,  with  lofty  ceiling  and 
panels  finely  carved  and  inlaid  with  richly-colored 
woods,  was  built  for  royal  feasts. 

My  room  was  an  inviting  resting-place;  the  hand- 
embroidered  counterpane,  handsome  oval  mirrors,  and 
an  elegant  writing-desk  giving  it  a  touch  of  luxurious- 
ness.  The  stove  of  pale  green  tilings  might  have  been 
a  doll-house  eight  stories  high,  and  the  slender  hexag- 
onal table  seemed  appropriate  for  tea  should  the  Lillipu- 
tians come  forth  to  discuss  the  "woman  question," 
which  agitates  all  Germany  at  present.  The  demand 
for  woman's  rights  was  made  in  Germany  about  sev- 
enty-five years  ago,  "when  machinery  made  her  labors 
in  the  household  almost  superfluous."  The  cultured 
women  became  interested  in  the  almost  helpless  con- 
dition of  those  of  the  middle  classes  and  lent  their  aid. 


One  oi    i  111:  Mw\  Towers  oi    Heidelberg  Castle 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMAN!  177 

In  1865,  under  the  leadership  of  Frau  Luise  Otto,  of 
Leipzig,  the  General  Association  of  Women  asked  for 
the  women  of  Germany  educational  facilities  equal  to 
those  provided  for  men:  the  right  to  work,  and  the 
choice  of  professions.  This  association  of  influential 
women  has  worked  wisely  and  unceasingly,  and  it  is 
confidently  expected  that  the  universities  of  Germany 
will  soon  be  opened  to  women.*  The  Lilliputians  did 
not  come  forth  to  discuss  the  situation,  and  in  the 
"wee  sma'  hours"  I  looked  down  from  my  window 
upon  the  drowsy  city,  across  fruitful  valleys,  and  into 
dark  forests  of  solitude  hanging  upon  mountain-crags 
beyond  the  Neckar.  The  chimes  of  Heidelberg  rang 
sweetly  with  the  passing  of  the  night,  and  the  flame- 
blossoms  of  pomegranate  trees  on  our  terraces  seemed 
to  flicker  in  the  starlight. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  next  morning  we  saw  an 
old  woman  deliver  milk  from  a  clumsy  cart  drawn  by 
a  cow — the  use  of  these  as  beasts  of  burden  in  Ger- 
many is  not  to  the  credit  of  the  empire. 

The  women  of  Germany  are  industrious,  even  those 
of  noble  birth  looking  well  to  the  ways  of  their  house- 
holds. The  practical  housewife  in  the  country  is  said 
to  rise  at  daylight  to  see  the  stock  fed,  the  butter  made, 
and  the  milk  sent  off  to  market.     Then,  before  break- 


*  In  London  we  learned  from  the  newspapers  (and  what  a 
comfort  it  was  to  be  able  to  read  with  ease  the  daily  news  once 
more)  that  this  "  Woman  Question  "  was  being  happily  settled 
by  degrees,  for  on  August  15th  all  the  Universities  of  Germany 
were  opened  to  women  who  have  passed  the  regular  entrance 
examinations. 
12 


178  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

fast  is  served  elsewhere,  she  rides  in  her  pony  carriage 
to  inspect  the  other  farms,  to  poke  into  every  corner, 
lift  the  lids  off  the  sauce-pans,  and  count  the  new-laid 
eggs.  No  matter  how  many  cheeses  may  be  already  in 
store,  the  required  number  must  be  added  each  noon. 
The  linen-chest,  filled  to  overflowing  by  deft  young 
fingers  before  the  bridal  day,  is  steadily  replenished, 
and  her  supplies  never  become  scant.  She  is  acquainted 
with  surgery,  keeps  balsams  on  hand  for  wounds,  and 
looks  after  the  brewing  of  mead  and  beer  for  festival 
occasions.  In  secret  she  prepares  for  Christmas  stores 
of  good  things  to  eat,  and  dainty  presents  for  her  own 
family,  and  those  of  the  bookkeepers,  secretaries,  and 
servants  of  the  various  farms.  And  no  heart  is  so  full 
of  delight  as  hers  when  troops  of  children — the  larger 
ones  leading  little  ones  by  the  hand  and  carrying  the 
babies  in  their  arms — march  around  the  Christmas  tree 
singing  sweet  carols. 

This  busy  housewife  never  tires  of  playing  with 
the  little  children  at  her  feet,  and  to  please  them  she 
has  devised  many  of  the  wonderful  toys  of  Germany. 
The  bracing  climate  of  Germany  must  go  far  towards 
creating  and  preserving  these  industrious  dames,  who 
live  and  work  as  systematically  as  the  planets  move  in 
their  courses.  What  they  did  before  machinery  made 
their  labors  "almost  superfluous  in  the  household,"  I 
shall  not  undertake  to  say. 

Nor  does  the  busy  housewife  forget  the  poor  and 
needy.  One  of  Germany's  beautiful  legends  is  of  St. 
Elizabeth,  who  dispensed  alms  despite  the  protest  and 
without  the  knowledge  of  her  husband,  the  landgrave. 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  179 

One  day  as  she  gave  loaves  of  bread  to  the  beggars  at 
the  castle-gate,  he  returned  unexpectedly,  and  with 
severity  asked  what  she  carried  in  her  apron.  She  re- 
plied, "Roses."  "Let  me  see,"  he  said.  And  lo!  by 
a  miracle  the  loaves  had  been  turned  into  roses. 

It  is  all  truth  to  say  that  the  love,  industry,  and 
chastity  of  motherhood  in  Germany  has  been  trans- 
muted into  flowers  and  fruits  of  genius  to  charm  and 
nourish  humanity  through  centuries  to  come. 

HEIDELBERG    CASTLE. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  we  drove  to  the  Castle 
of  Heidelberg,  one  of  the  most  famous  and  interesting 
castles  of  the  world.  This  vast  structure  was  begun 
about  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century  by  Elector  Ru- 
pert, and  its  collection  of  palaces  around  the  courtyard 
mark  historic  events.  Otto  Plenry's  building  is  said 
to  have  been  the  "finest  example  of  Renaissance  archi- 
tecture" in  Germany.  The  palace  erected  for  Eliza- 
beth, daughter  of  James  I,  is  also  of  great  interest  and 
beauty.  Frederick's  palace  seems  to  be  in  a  better  state 
of  preservation  than  the  others,  and  in  its  group  of 
imposing  statues  of  crusaders  and  palatine  electors, 
Charlemagne  occupies  the  place  of  honor.  We  went 
into  the  banquet  hall,  the  chapel,  and  the  vaulted 
chamber  of  the  Great  Tun,  which  was  built  in  175 1 
and  is  large  enough  to  contain  more  than  two  hundred 
thousand  bottles  of  wine.  This  gigantic  wine-tun  and 
the  fireplace  in  the  kitchen  for  roasting  an  ox  indicate 
feasting  and  revelry  of  vast  proportion  and  unsafe  du- 
ration.    We  imagine  the  sweet  sound  of  minstrelsy  in 


180  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

Castle  Hall  became  less  melodious  as  flagons  of  wine 
were  freely  quaffed  by  the  gay  company. 

This  grand  castle,  with  "buttress,  bastions,  and 
high-soaring  towers,"  has  the  emblems  of  chivalry  and 
heraldic  arms  of  German  potentates  sculptured  on  its 
walls ;  the  pillars  of  the  fountain  in  the  courtyard  were 
brought  from  Charlemagne's  palace  at  Ingelheim.  The 
statues  of  stern  electors  and  noble  crusaders  are  solemn 
and  silent,  but  the  court-jester,  in  efKgy,  actually  makes 
the  wine-cellar  of  Frederick's  palace  resound  with  mer- 
riment to-day.  He  of  the  blue  coat,  knee-breeches, 
and  lace  ruffles  looks  bland  and  simple ;  but  only  touch 
his  hand,  and  from  the  box  he  holds,  up  flies  a  fox-tail 
into  the  unwary  tourist's  face,  while  friends  and 
strangers  unite  in  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  the  old  court- 
jester  is  satisfied. 

The  grounds  once  used  in  falconry  were  pointed 
out,  and  in  imagination  we  saw  hooded  hawks,  with 
bells  on  their  legs,  borne  by  falconers  for  a  royal  com- 
pany of  knights  and  ladies  mounted  on  white  palfreys, 
eager  for  this  ancient  sport,  almost  universal  during 
the  Middle  Ages. 

The  moat,  sixty  feet  deep  and  half  filled  with 
water  brought  from  the  mountains;  the  underground 
stairways,  and  the  shattered  towers  tell  of  intrigue  as 
well  as  splendor  in  the  days  of  old  when  men  were 
bold.  This  castle  was  greatly  damaged  during  the 
Thirty- Years'  War,  but  was  restored  by  Charles 
Louis.  It  was  dismantled  by  the  French  in  1689,  and 
again  in  1693,  and  was  almost  demolished  in  1764, 
when  it  was  struck  by  lightning.     Yet  this  vast  and 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  181 

magnificent  ruin  may  be  seen  from  afar,  with  its  many 
grand  towers  crowning  Castlehill,  a  spur  of  the  Ko- 
nigsstuhl  Mountains.  Scenes  enacted  here  in  the 
drama  of  life  by  rulers,  robbers  and  revelers,  knights 
and  ladies,  have  added  volumes  to  the  stern  and  ro- 
mantic history  of  Germany. 

The  forest  of  the  old  castle  garden  is  interspersed 
with  holly,  the  holy-cross  spruce,  and  the  yew  tree, 
once  valued  for  making  bows  and  arrows.  A  small 
primeval  forest  of  yew,  now  almost  extinct  in  Europe, 
is  one  of  Germany's  valued  possessions  in  the  Bava- 
rian highlands. 

Just  outside  of  the  castle  grounds  are  the  inevitable 
and  unavoidable  shops  filled  with  curios.  The  groups 
of  statuettes  representing  scenes  from  life  in  Germany 
are  of  peculiar  interest;  especially  the  three  little 
women,  who  are  industriously  knitting  as  they  stand 
to  gossip  in  the  market-place.  The  chief  diversion  of 
the  men  of  Germany  is  indicated  by  the  array  of  pipes, 
made  or  molded  of  amber,  porcelain,  wood,  and  what- 
not ;  decorated  and  plain,  large  and  small,  short  and 
long,  straight  and  crooked ;  and  there  are  tobacco 
pouches  braided  in  silver  and  gold,  with  smoking-caps 
to  match. 

THE    UNIVERSITY    OF    HEIDELBERG. 

From  the  castle  we  drove  to  Heidelberg  Univer- 
sity, whence  scholars,  scientists,  and  statesmen  have 
come  to  make  Germany  a  world-power  among  the  na- 
tions. We  viewed  this  famous  and  ancient  institution 
with  veneration,  albeit  we  were  disappointed  in  the 
appearance  of  its  local  habitation. 


182         LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

The  university  was  founded  by  the  Elector  Rupert 
in  1386,  and  brilliant,  wise,  and  good  men  have  shed 
luster  upon  its  honored  name.  In  15 18  Martin  Luther 
preached  here  the  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith, 
and  the  university  was  active  in  the  Reformation.  It 
became  the  stronghold  of  Protestant  learning,  and  the 
Heidelberg  catechism  was  the  work  of  theologians 
within  its  walls.  Of  the  great  Reformer,  Richter  said, 
"Luther's  prose  is  a  half-battle ;  few  deeds  are  equal 
to  his  words."  And  did  not  this  statesman,  gentle 
enough  to  love  the  birds,  and  courageous  enough  to 
defy  the  devil,  lay  sure  foundation  for  the  German 
language,  even  while  her  scholars  wrote  in  Latin  and 
her  court  conversed  in  French? 

The  library  of  the  university,  founded  by  Otto 
Henry,  was  one  of  the  most  valuable  in  Europe;  but 
in  1622  Bavarian  invaders  presented  the  greater  part 
of  it  to  Pope  Leo  XI.  Happily  in  181 5  many  of  the 
rarest  works  were  returned,  and  the  precious  volumes 
are  dear  to  the  heart  of  Heidelberg. 

The  university  prison,  with  caricatures,  comic  pic- 
tures, and  songs  scrawled  on  the  walls  by  imprisoned 
students,  seems  to  have  been  a  lively  habitation  for 
them.  We  entered  this  prison  through  a  courtyard  in 
which  children  played  and  women  and  chickens 
scratched  for  a  living.  Accurately  speaking,  the 
women  were  darning  and  washing  clothes,  and  one 
was  paring  potatoes,  and  it  may  be  they  have  minis- 
tered from  time  to  time  to  the  needs  of  rollicking  stu- 
dent  prisoners  incarcerated   above  them. 

Across  the   Neckar  River  stands  the  house   dedi- 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY         183 

cated  to  dueling,  evidences  of  which  we  saw  in  the 
ugly  scars  on  the  faces  of  several  students.  We  are 
told  the  student  duelists  wear  heavily-padded  clothing 
and  are  held  far  enough  apart  to  escape  mortal 
wounds;  also  that  skilled  surgeons  are  always  in  at- 
tendance to  dress  the  saber-cuts,  the  so-called  wounds 
of  honor.  We  wondered  why  the  Emperor  of  Ger- 
many, a  God-fearing  man,  does  not  forever  prohibit 
this  senseless  and  wicked  travesty  of  courage. 

Ruskin  says  the  women  of  nations  might  stop 
threatened  wars  by  assuming  sorrowful  countenances 
and  wearing  garments  of  mourning.  And  I  dare  say, 
the  women  of  this  nation  might  soon  frown  out  of 
existence  this  barbarity  at  Heidelberg  University 
which  wTould  destroy  the  beauty  of  Adonis  should  one 
chance  to  be  born  in  Germany.  The  professors,  stu- 
dents of  other  nations,  and  many  Germans  who  come 
to  Heidelberg  University  disapprove  of  these  duels, 
and  effort  is  being  made  to  abolish  the  custom.  The 
life  of  students  in  German  universities  is  without  re- 
straint, and  only  to  be  desired  for  men  whose  habits 
have  been  formed,  and  it  is  well  for  American  parents 
to  remember  this.  The  students  of  Heidelberg  Uni- 
versity are  very  loyal  to  their  motto: 

"Fearless  in  strife:  to  the  banner  still  true." 

And  fellows  from  this  great  university  have  become 
men  renowned  in  peace  and  war ;  men  of  thought  to 
make  mystery  plain;  men  of  heavenly  gift  in  poesy  and 
music;  men  of  daring  to  break  the  thralldom  of  super- 
stition, and  men  of  faith  to  lift  the  world  nearer  the 
Savior  of  mankind. 


184  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

The  seat  of  this  renowned  university,  the  pros- 
perous little  city  of  Heidelberg,  has  had  an  eventful 
life.  In  early  times  it  was  a  fief  of  the  Bishop  of 
Worms,  and  in  the  thirteenth  century  it  was  made  the 
capital  of  the  palatinate,  remaining  such  for  five  hun- 
dred years. 

In  the  seventeenth  century  the  city  was  sacked  by 
Tilly,  taken  by  the  Swedes,  beleagured  by  Bavarians, 
and  twice  pillaged  by  the  French.  In  1693  the  French 
left  only  one  house  in  the  Markt-platz,  which  house 
is  now  a  popular  inn  with  the  students. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  her  ancient  build- 
ings is  Peterskirche,  founded  in  1392,  in  which  Jerome 
of  Prague  expounded  the  doctrines  of  the  Reformation. 
Of  interest  also  is  the  fact  that  in  a  church  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  the  Roman  Catholics  now  worship  in 
its  choir,  while  the  Protestants  worship  in  its  nave. 
Another  old  building  worthy  of  mention  in  this  con- 
nection is  the  old  Jesuitenkirche,  with  its  fine  decora- 
tions. All  three  of  these  buildings  are  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture. 

There  was  not  time  to  visit  the  shops  of  Heidel- 
berg, and  we  failed  to  learn  the  scientific  processes, 
salutary  or  Satanic,  of  the  "milk  laboratory"  we  passed. 

A  bronze  statue  of  Field  Marshal  Prince  Wrede, 
erected  in  i860,  by  Louis  I,  King  of  Bavaria,  is  con- 
spicuously placed  in  the  city.  Doubtless  there  are  me- 
morials to  the  Emperor  Frederick  and  Bismarck,  the 
Iron  Chancellor,  who  together  welded  principalities, 
dukedoms,  and  little  kingdoms  into  the  great  German 
Empire.     I  was  as  bitterly  disappointed  in  not  seeing 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  185 

statues  of  these  statesmen  in  Heidelberg  as  the  chap- 
eron was  on  not  finding  the  dazzling  white  angels 
over  the  doors  of  St.  Mark's  Cathedral  in  Venice. 

At  present  we  have  no  expectation  of  seeing  his 
majesty,  Emperor  William  of  Germany  and  King  of 
Prussia,  and  we  must  be  content  with  his  portrait  on 
a  postcard.  He  appears  to  be  a  fine-looking  man, 
heavily  decorated  with  numerous  signs  and  symbols  of 
royalty  and  power.  The  empress  on  the  same  postcard 
is  handsomely  attired,  and  wears  jewels  and  emblems 
of  great  worth  and  significance.  We  understand  the 
crown  prince  is  learning  a  trade,  for  these  practical 
Germans  believe  it  not  only  wise  to  dignify  labor,  but 
that  it  is  as  necessary  to  train  the  hand  as  the  brain 
in  order  to  attain  proficiency  in  life. 

The  German  Empire,  now  nearly  forty  years  old, 
looks  well  to  the  ways  of  her  household  and  plans 
for  its  future  enlargement.  It  is  said  she  will  soon 
adopt  Prussia's  system  of  "taxing  the  bachelors,"  which 
means  the  married  men  with  small  incomes  are  allowed 
to  deduct  a  certain  amount  from  their  taxes  for  every 
child  in  the  family.  It  occurs  to  us  other  nations 
might  find  it  profitable  to  pay  a  premium  upon  large 
families. 

BINGEN,  AND  OTHER  CITIES  OX  THE  RHINE. 

July  30,  1908. 

From  the  day  of  the  sweet  song  of  minstrelsy  to 
those  of  triumphant  roar  of  Wagner's  overtures  and 
operas  Germany  has  loved  music ;  and  so,  to  our  re- 
gret, we  reached  Bingen  just  as  her  festival  of  music 


186         LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

closed.     The   large   tent-auditorium,   gayly  decorated 
with  national  colors,  had  not  even  been  removed. 

In  this  realm  of  old  castles,  legendary  lore,  and 
history,  facts  and  fancies  are  inextricably  woven  to- 
gether, and  the  line  of  demarcation  is  almost  obliter- 
ated at  times.  Though  in  sight  of  Bingen  across  the 
river,  on  the  terraced  heights,  is  the  "Watch  on  the 
Rhine,"  a  colossal  and  imposing  monument  which  com- 
memorates Prussia's  final  victory  over  the  French  in 
1870,  a  tremendous  fact  in  the  history  of  Europe. 

Our  drive  through  Bingen  aroused  the  good  peo- 
ple, who  rushed  out  to  look  at  us.  Mothers  thrust 
their  little  children  forward,  to  see  or  be  seen,  and 
boys  ran  ahead,  shouting  to  others,  who  joined  them 
and  stared  at  us.  In  the  more  pretentious  houses  the 
mirror-reflectors  gave  occupants  of  the  second  story  a 
view  of  what  passed  on  in  the  street  below;  but  for 
once  white-capped  dames  laid  aside  their  knitting  and 
hurried  to  the  windows  for  a  good  look.     Rev.  Dr. 

B said  it  was  our  first  experience  in  being  "the 

peep  show,"  but  the  entertainment  was  not  altogether 
one-sided.  Perhaps  so  many  good-looking  Americans 
were  never  before  seen  at  one  time  in  this  quaint  vil- 
lage of  steep  red  roofs,  little  windows,  and  snowy 
lace  curtains. 

The  tiny  gardens  were  brilliant,  with  red  and 
yellow  dahlias  and  fine  pink  roses,  aptly  called  "Ger- 
man Beauties"  by  Mrs.  B ,  of  Atlanta.     Judging 

from  the  number  of  garments  spread  out  to  dry  on  the 
grass  near  the  village  stream,  we  saw  the  beginning 
of  the  semi-annual  clothes-washing  in  Bingen.     The 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  187 

women  and  children  were  comfortably  and  sensibly 
dressed  for  their  work,  and  they  all  seemed  in  fine 
humor  with  the  world.  Indeed,  I  have  been  much 
impressed  with  the  evidences  of  thrift  and  the  spirit 
of  cheerfulness  which  seem  to  prevail  among  the  tillers 
of  the  soil  in  Europe.  With  such  utilization  of  land 
and  a  like  frugality  in  the  home,  our  small  farmers 
in  America  might  lay  up  riches  for  themselves  and  the 
good  of  generations  yet  unborn. 

On  the  little  farms  around  Bingen  preparation  was 
being  made  for  the  autumnal  seed-sowing,  and  more 
than  one  woman,  aided  by  her  domestic  ally  the  cow, 
plowed  the  fields.  Almost  every  inch  of  land  is  in 
cultivation,  narrow  terraces  being  held  in  place  with 
stones  carried  by  hand  up  the  hillsides.  The  potatoes 
of  the  Rhineland  are  fine,  with  a  nutty  flavor;  the 
cheese  is  very  good,  and  the  German  housewives  pride 
themselves  on  their  rich  pastries,  fine  sweetmeats,  and 
sparkling  wines.  Of  the  terraced  hills  overlooking  the 
Rhine  and  cultivated  to  the  top,  the  concierge  of  our 
hotel  said,  "There  's  where  the  good  wine  grows." 
Indeed,  these  picturesque  vineyards  are  profitable,  for 
the  Rhineland  produces  the  finest  white  wines  in  the 
world.  The  grandeur  of  our  lofty  mountains  and 
the  sweep  of  our  great  rivers  can  not  be  surpassed  by 
anything  we  have  seen  in  Europe ;  but  the  scenery  of 
the  Rhine  is  justly  famous  for  beauty,  the  castle  ruins 
adding  a  picturesqueness  yet  unknown  in  the  United 
States. 

Let  us  hope  our  country  may  escape  such  tragic 
events  as  have  made  the  Rhine  one  of  the  most  inter- 


188  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

esting  rivers  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Beginning 
with  the  Romans,  led  by  Caesar,  and  until  modern 
times,  armies  of  European  nations  have  crossed  and 
recrossed  it  to  wage  terrible  warfare  until  the  very 
mountain  crags  have  trembled,  and  the  hills  and  val- 
leys are  "saturated  with  life  of  the  past." 

The  Rhine,  eight  hundred  miles  long,  gets  its  start 
in  Switzerland,  where  the  streams  from  more  than  one 
hundred  glaciers  unite  to  gladden  the  heart  of  Ger- 
many. Our  sail  down  the  river  was  charming,  the  old 
castles  recalling  historical  facts  and  ancient  legends  of 
the  celebrated  Mouse  Tower,  the  famous  fortress  of 
Ehrenbreitstein,  Rheinstein,  and  Ehrenfels,  once  the 
residence  of  the  archbishops  of  Mayence.  Stahleck 
was  taken  and  retaken  a  number  of  times  during  the 
Thirty- Years'  War,  and  at  Caub  the  Prussian  army 
crossed  the  Rhine  in  1814  under  the  command  of 
Blucher.  Passing  the  cave  of  the  Lorelei,  we  heard 
the  sighing  of  winds  and  saw  the  great  stonehill 
whence  mysterious  missiles  were  sent  upon  luckless 
men  of  fabled  lands. 

The  poet  tells  us 

"A  maiden  of  wonderful  beauty, 
Like  a  vision  enchanting  and  fair, 
There  sits  in  the  blaze  of  her  jewels, 
And  combeth  her  bright,  golden  hair;" 

but  she  was  not  visible  that  day.  Nor  did  we  see  the 
place  where  the  fabled  Nibelungen  treasures,  won  by 
Siegfried  from  the  mythical  giants  of  the  Land  of 
Mist,  were  cast  into  the  Rhine  by  the  cruel  Hagen, 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  189 

who  slew  him  and  left  the  devoted  Krimhilde  in  despair 
and  desolation. 

In  a  day  or  two  we  shall  be  in  "brave  little  Hol- 
land ;"  and  what  a  contrast  will  that  flat  country  of 
canals  be  to  Germany,  with  these  terraced  vineyards, 
castle-crowned  mountains,  and  romantic  forests  over- 
looking the  Rhine. 

COBLENTZ,    THE    CITY    OF    FORTIFICATIONS. 

As  we  neared  Coblentz,  the  ancient  capital  of 
Rhenish  Prussia,  we  looked  out  for  the  extensive  forti- 
fications which  connect  the  military  works  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine  with  the  famous  fortress  Ehren- 
breitstein  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  This  tri- 
angular city,  situated  at  the  confluence  of  the  Rhine 
and  Moselle  Rivers,  always  a  place  of  military  im- 
portance, is  a  great  commercial  center  whence  linens, 
cottons,  furniture,  tobacco,  wines,  and  mineral  waters 
are  exported  to  Great  Britain,  Holland,  and  other 
countries.  At  this  place  the  Rhine  is  spanned  by  a 
bridge  of  boats  nearly  500  yards  long  and  an  iron 
bridge  built  in  recent  years.  The  Royal  Castle  and 
other  handsome  buildings  front  on  the  Rhine,  and  of 
the  ancient  structures  none  is  more  interesting  than 
the  Church  of  St.  Castor,  built  in  early  Lombard  style 
with  four  towers. 

Before  the  Christian  era  a  military  post,  which 
became  the  residence  of  Frankish  kings,  was  established 
here  by  the  Roman  Drusus.  In  843  A.  D.  the  three 
sons  of  Charlemagne — Lothar,  Charles,  and  Lewis — 
met   here,   when   they   divided   the   Germanic   Empire 


190  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

into  France,  Germany,  and   Italy.     Truly,  Germany 
has  good  reason  for  pride  in  Coblentz  on  the  Rhine. 

July  31st. 

COLOGNE,  THE  CATHEDRAL   CITY. 

This  is  one  of  Germany's  most  ancient  and  inter- 
esting cities  of  fortifications,  crooked  streets,  and  nar- 
row pathways,  and  in  German  it  is  Koln.  In  some 
streets  we  walk  single  file,  and  then  "make  ourselves 
small"  when  we  meet  people,  preferring  this  to  the 
way  of  the  two  wise  goats  that  met  on  the  edge  of 
the  precipice,  when  one  lay  down  for  the  other  to 
walk  over  him.  On  yesterday  one  of  the  ladies  in 
our  party  was  nearly  run  over  by  a  cyclist  who  darted 
from  behind  a  cab  as  she  started  across  the  narrow 
street.  She  escaped,  and  the  young  man  was  not  in- 
jured by  his  sudden  stop  which  overturned  the  bicycle; 
but  we  will  not  soon  forget  the  cab-driver's  angry 
warning.  Broadly  speaking,  it  seems  if  you  get  run 
over  by  a  vehicle  in  Germany  your  only  escape  from 
fines  and  imprisonment  for  obstructing  the  highway 
(not  to  say  narrow-way)  is  to  die  on  the  spot;  so  the 
angry  cab-driver  was  in  reality  a  "generous  barbarian," 
and  we  thanked  him. 

There  are  many  traces  of  ancient  days  in  Cologne, 
for  it  was  on  this  site  the  Emperor  Claudius  founded 
a  Roman  colony,  51  A.  D.,  and  called  it  Colonia 
Agrippina  in  honor  of  his  wife.  Centuries  later  this 
chief  city  of  Rhenish  Prussia  became  a  fortress  of  first 
rank ;  it  is  connected  with  Deutz  across  the  Rhine  by 
a  bridge  of  boats  more  than  a  thousand   feet  long, 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  191 

though  the  iron  bridge  is  used  for  street  and  railway 
traffic. 

We  walked  through  the  market-place,  alive  with 
women  and  children  who  were  disappointed  at  our 
failure  to  buy  beets,  carrots,  and  onions.  We  did  in- 
dulge in  a  few  flowers  and  small  bottles  of  cologne 
water — one  of  the  principal  manufactures  for  which 
this  city  is  noted.  A  rose  called  daisy  may  smell  as 
sweet ;  but  does  "Koln-wasser"  seem  as  fragrant  as 
cologne-water  to  you?  However,  I  do  not  vouch  for 
the  accuracy  of  German  phrases  coined  in  these  crooked 
streets. 

Some  dogs  earn  their  bread  here,  and  maybe  those 
that  draw  the  little  wagons  of  shining  milk-cans  from 
door  to  door  have  special  reward  from  the  cheerful 
women  who  guide  and  ofttimes  help  them  carry  the 
load. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  ancient  dwellings 
here  is  the  Jabbach  House,  in  which  the  great  painter 
Peter  Paul  Rubens  was  born,  June  29,  1577.  His 
parents  fled  from  Antwerp  on  account  of  religious 
troubles,  and  resided  here  a  number  of  years.  A 
bust  of  Rubens  is  carved  in  oak  over  the  large  dou- 
ble doors  of  this  house,  representing  him  as  wearing 
the  large  bonnet  seen  in  the  portrait  of  the  famous 
painter. 

A  tablet  records  the  fact  that  Marie  de  Medici, 
widow  of  Henry  IV  and  mother  of  Louis  XIII  of 
France,  died  in  this  house,  July  4,  1642,  and  was 
buried  before  the  chapel  of  the  Three  Kings  in  the 
cathedral.      Afterwards    her    body   was   removed    for 


192  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  «* 

burial  in  Paris;  but,  it  is  said,  her  heart  was  left  in 
the   Cathedral   of   Cologne. 

In  the  Wallraf-Richartz  Museum  we  saw  the 
Holy  Family  and  other  paintings  by  Rubens ;  St.  Fran- 
cis Assisi,  by  Murillo,  and  many  paintings  by  old 
Dutch  masters,  who  bring  before  us  intimate  scenes 
of  the  home-life  of  their  people.  What  more  charming 
conception  than  the  Family  Concert,  in  which  the 
little  girl  beats  the  drum,  one  boys  plays  the  flute, 
and  another  sings,  while  the  little  dog  and  the  pet 
crow  seem  to  share  the  fond  mother's  pride  and  com- 
plete the  appreciative  audience. 

Of  the  thirty-three  churches  in  Cologne,  twenty- 
nine  are  Roman  Catholic,  and  many  of  them  contain 
treasures  of  great  value.  St.  Peter's  is  adorned  with 
the  famous  altar-piece  by  Rubens  representing  the 
Crucifixion  of  St.  Peter.  St.  Gereons  and  St.  Ursula 
are  the  patron  saints  of  Cologne,  and  each  is  honored 
with  a  monumental  church  of  rare  architectural  beauty. 
We  visited  the  Church  of  St.  Ursula,  with  its  golden 
chamber  lined  with  the  skulls  of  this  saint  and  her 
eleven  thousand  nuns  who  were  cruelly  slaughtered  on 
a  holy  pilgrimage.  Relics  of  St.  Ursula  are  kept  in  a 
silver  casket,  and  her  monument  is  a  recumbent  statue 
of  this  revered  saint.  Among  other  relics  in  the  cham- 
ber is  a  broken  jar,  said  to  have  been  used  at  Cana 
when  Christ  turned  water  into  wine  for  the  marriage 

feast. 

But  the  chief  object  of  interest  in  this  ancient  city 
is  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne,  which  was  six  hundred 
years  in  building — one  of  the  finest  Gothic  monuments 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  193 

in  Europe  and  one  of  the  most  imposing  structures  in 
the  world.  We  love  to  linger  near,  to  look  again  and 
again  at  this  vast  and  noble  cathedral,  with  its  mighty 
twin  towers,  severe  and  stately,  yet  soaring  towards 
heaven  and  lifting  men's  thoughts  to  God.  Not  less 
impressive  than  the  sublime  exterior  is  its  interior,  with 
lofty  painted  arches,  massive  pillars,  and  richly-colored 
windows.  Here  are  sarcophagi,  with  recumbent  statues 
of  archbishops  of  Cologne,  whose  robes,  jewels,  and 
chalices  are  venerated  as  holy  things.  The  shrine  of 
the  Magi  is  adorned  with  gold  and  precious  stones,  for 
the  bones  of  the  three  wise  men  who  carried  gifts  of 
gold,  frankincense,  and  myrrh  to  the  infant  Savior  are 
said  to  rest  here. 

It  is  an  old  legend  that  the  name  of  the  architect 
of  this  wonderful  cathedral  has  been  forgotten  because, 
although  he  was  able  with  the  aid  of  a  pious  monk 
to  wrest  the  plan  from  the  devil,  and  then  proved 
himself  free  from  covetousness,  anger,  and  all  the  seven 
deadly  sins  except  pride,  that  one  was  sufficient  to  rob 
him  of  the  great  honor  of  being  known  to  posterity. 

As  we  took  our  last  look  at  the  soaring  towers  of 
the  cathedral  we  were  reminded  of  Luther's  hymn: 

"A  safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon  ; 
He  '11  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 
That  hath  us  now  o'ertaken." 

We  thought,  too,  of  the  motto  adopted  in  recent  years 
by  Christian  men  of  Germany,  "We  can  advance  only 
upon  our  knees;"  and  we  know  Germany's  greatness  is 
13 


194  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

in  something  more  than  the  strength  of  the  largest  army 
in  the  world.  Through  the  invention  of  her  own 
Gutenberg  the  zeal  and  faith  of  Germany's  reformers 
and  religious  teachers  have  been  spread  abroad,  and 
atheism,  infidelity,  and  superstition  shall  pass  away. 

We  have  not  looked  into  the  faces  of  celebrities  in 
Germany,  but  have  seemed  to  feel  the  presence  of  phi- 
losophers, poets,  and  prose  writers,  many  of  whom 
long  since  departed.  But  there  is  in  them,  as  Carlyle 
said  of  Richter,  "that  which  does  not  die;  that  beauty 
and  earnestness  of  soul,  that  spirit  of  humanity,  of 
love,  and  mild  wisdom  over  which  the  vicissitudes  of 
mode  have  no  sway." 

Among  the  novelists  we  have  recalled  Marlitt, 
Mulbach,  and  Georg  Ebers,  the  distinguished  Egyptol- 
ogist, whose  delightful  novels  "Uarda,"  "The  Bride  of 
the  Nile,"  and  "The  Egyptian  Princess"  give  much  in- 
formation about  the  curious  customs  of  the  ancient  and 
wonderful  people  of  the  land  of  the  Nile.  Of  course, 
we  have  recalled  that  coterie  of  the  nineteenth  century 
entertained  by  the  Duke  of  Weimar,  wherein  shone 
Goethe,  "Patriarch  of  German  Literature,"  prime  fa- 
vorite at  court,  and  author  of  "Faust;"  Schiller,  the 
student-author  of  "The  Robbers,"  whose  "William 
Tell,"  with  its  glorious  call  to  brotherhood  and  rever- 
ence for  womanhood  shall  ring  throughout  the  ages; 
Herder,  of  whom  Richter  said,  if  he  were  not  a  poet, 
he  was  "something  more — a  poem ;"  and  Richter,  the 
rugged,  impetuous,  vehement,  and  reverent  lover  of 
nature  and  mankind— "Jean  Paul,  the  Only  One." 
And  most  of  all  we  have  thought  of  Richter,  for  this 


LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY  195 

poet  of  exuberant  fancy,  this  philosopher  who  laughed 
in  the  face  of  frowning  misfortune,  this  humorist  "who 
bowls  with  the  sun  and  moon,"  dwelt  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  love.  He  pitied  the  man  whose  mother  had 
not  made  for  him  all  mothers  venerable.  He  denied 
himself  the  evening  meal  to  gain  time  for  writing,  but 
said,  "The  interruptions  by  my  children  I  can  not  deny 
myself." 

And  do  we  not  recognize  Jean  Paul  himself  in  the 
sympathetic  and  devoutly-wise  Emmanuel  of  that  in- 
comparable book  "Hesperus,"  to  whom  Victor  sa\s: 
"Thou  lovest  men  as  children  who  can  not  offend ;  thou 
lovest  earthly  enjoyments  as  fruits  which  one  plucks 
for  refreshment,  but  without  hungering  for  them;  the 
storms  and  earthquakes  of  life  pass  by  thee  unheard, 
because  thou  liest  in  a  life-dream  full  of  tones,  full  of 
songs,  full  of  meadows;  and  when  death  awakes  thee, 
thou  art  still  smiling  over  the  bright  dream." 

We  recall  very  few  sallies  of  wit  from  the  satirical 
Heinrich  Heine,  embittered  by  ill-health  and  untoward 
circumstances;  but  his  tender  devotion  to  his  mother 
and  wife  will  never  be  forgotten.  And  is  there  any- 
thing more  beautiful  and  pathetic  than  the  lines  writ- 
ten from  his  deathbed  to  his  wife — a  prayer-poem  end- 
ing with  these  lines: 

"My  shepherd  care, 
My  herdsman's  office  now  I  leave; 
Back  to  Thy  hands,  O  God,  I  give 
My  staff;  and  now  I  pray  Thee  guard 
This  lamb  of  mine,  when  'neath  the  sward 


196  LETTERS  FROM  GERMANY 

*  I  lie ;  and  suffer  not,  I  pray, 
That  thorns  should  pierce  her  on  the  way; 
From  nettles  harsh  protect  her  fleece; 
From  soiling  marshes  give  release, 
And  everywhere  her  feet  before 
With  sweet  grass  spread  the  meadows  o'er; 
And  let  her  sleep  from  care  as  blest 
As  once  she  slept  upon  my  breast  ?" 

We  leave  Germany  with  a  new  sense  of  obligation 
to  her  sons  and  daughters  who  have  enriched  our  life, 
and  who  have  made  her  people  to  be  numbered  with 
the  great  ones  of  earth.  And  may  her  men  and  women 
ever  be  characterized  by  the  fidelity  handed  down  by 
"the  generous  barbarians,"  the  honored  progenitors  of 
this  nation  of  thinkers  and  philosophers! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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P37  L  Letters  from 

Italy,  Switzer- 
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